


Shaping The Present (With a black and silver stare)

by Frumion_III



Series: A Boy Who Made All The Wrong Choices. [3]
Category: Fantastic Beasts and Where to Find Them (Movies), Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Angst and Tragedy, Arithmancy, Blood Magic, Blood and Gore, Bloodshed, Dark Magic, Death, Don't Like Don't Read, Don't read without the first part of the series, F/M, Love Letters, M/M, Revenge, Revolution, Runes, Seer Gellert Grindelwald, Sequel, War, Wizarding World (Harry Potter), Young Gellert Grindelwald
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-06-29
Updated: 2020-04-27
Packaged: 2020-05-30 19:10:08
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 19
Words: 104,962
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19409581
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Frumion_III/pseuds/Frumion_III
Summary: There is a very famous story about Gellert Grindelwald, madman who almost ended wizarding society as we know it and brought about a horrifically bloody revolution, but this is not that story. History is written by the victors, and things are never quite what they seem.This is a story about a young man who could see how broken the world around him was, and thought he could change things for the better. This is a story about a revolutionary who rose to dizzying hights of power and attempted to forge a brilliant future with an army at his back. This is a story about a man who went to war, and in war there are no heroes or villains, only those who win and those who lose.





	1. Drunken Dreams Of Jasmine Flowers

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Gellert stays with Vinda, the last family he has left, and can't seem to get warm. One drink turns into many, and like so many did in Paris at the turn of the century, Gellert has his first experience with what would soon be known as the green killer. The sweet taste of victory turns to ashes in his mouth far too quickly and he meets some interesting people with a terrible story to tell.

Gellert found Vinda on the roof of a dilapidated theatre in a dress that looked almost comically out of place, the finery smeared with greasepaint that had stained the fine green brocade badly. Vinda wore her fragile smile like a suit of armour and jumped when she heard his footsteps, her wand already out in a defensive position as she turned to him. “What happened to you?” they said after a tense silence, synchronised, and Gellert offered a broken smile as he walked slowly towards her.  
“There was an incident, Albus chose his family over me and so here I am.” He said, hollow eyed as the admission tore its way up his throat. “Alone.” As he said the last word something inside him cracked and he felt a tear dribble down his face, disconnected from anything he could tangibly feel. Some days he woke sure that everything that had happened was a terrible dream, only to open his eyes to discover that he was wrapped in a blanket rather than a pair of arms, and that the only blue in sight was the sky. He had spent a few days wandering through muggle London and sleeping on the sun baked cobblestones of the grey metropolis before he had suddenly remembered that he wasn’t quite alone, and as he stood looking at the last person he had left in the world he let out a shuddering breath as his chest twinged again, the bond that he had forged so confidently stinging as Albus felt a stab of guilt. Though he hadn’t felt himself begin to weaken, Gellert found himself grasped in a tight embrace as his knees buckled beneath him, and as he began to explain Vinda flung an arm around him comfortingly, the solid weight of it easy and affectionate. 

Vinda smiled sadly at him as Gellert finished his tale hours later, red eyed and jittery as he recounted the final battle, lighting her cigarette with a click of her fingers and turning towards the sky to exhale a contemplative cloud of grey. The stars were obscured by Paris’ cloud of smog and dirt, and Gellert felt his muscles morph, a twisted little smile cracking the tear tracked frozen exterior that he had worn since the fight, the expression feeling painfully wrong on his face after the last few days. Breathing in the toxic fumes of the city and lighting the cigarette Vinda held out to him with a flick of his fingers, he began to laugh. There were countless stars in Godrick’s Hollow and he felt that it was only right that he’d left them behind too.

He curled up to sleep beside Vinda in the dingy cupboard that passed for her current accommodation, trying not to listen to the drunken sex that was all too audible through the thin walls. Vinda slammed her hand into the wall and yelled for quiet, to no avail, and they shared a deeply irritated look before Gellert flicked his fingers and silencing wards sprang up around them. “I knew I missed you for a reason.” Said Vinda, her laughter quiet and subdued, a shadow of the cackle he remembered, and Gellert felt the frost of rage descend on him again, wondering who had damaged his last friend, and how he would extract his revenge. He ignored the pull of the bond that distorted his vision as he closed his red-rimmed eyes at last, tricking him with a phantom pair of blue eyes and painting the flicker of candle-light a bright copper that could almost have been Albus’ hair in the sun. Vinda’s familiar Lamellar curled up between them where it was warmest and Gellert fell asleep thinking about curses as the cat’s purring grew louder in his ears. As he slept his hands clenched around the blood pact, the sharp edges of the metal digging into his skin, and blood seeped from between his clenched fingers as if the pact itself was injured. Vinda was the one who carefully prised his fingers off the metal and cleaned his cuts with a muttered spell before scowling good-naturedly at his still sleeping form and turning over to sleep herself, her pale smile reaching her eyes for the first time in months. 

In the morning Vinda dragged him out of bed at a disgustingly early hour, threatening him with grievous bodily harm, and he felt a little more of his blood thaw out as he realised how much he had missed her. He felt something inside the hollow of his frozen heart click back into place, ignored the twisting pain of the bond and changed his clothes for fresh ones as Cixi screeched from her perch on the window ledge and Vinda applied a thin line of black kohl to her eyelids in front of the mirror. Gellert noticed the tell tale smudges of a glamour under Vinda’s eyes and wondered again what had damaged his friend so badly. Out of the corner of his eye Gellert spotted the remains of a letter scrunched into the bottom of an ashtray, and the Rosier family seal was unmistakable on what was left of the envelope. Vinda followed his gaze and flinched, setting her jaw as Gellert watched a mask of indifference slide down behind her eyes until he was faced with a haughty stare from his best friend. Wordless, he pulled her into a tight hug and when they broke apart he smiled, careful to keep an edge of cruelty in the expression that he wore for Vinda’s sake. She had always been brittle when she was upset like this, ready to lash out if anyone showed sympathy, and he contented himself with muttering promises of vengeance into their hug as he combed the knots out of her hair gently. She managed a smile and Gellert linked their arms as they clambered over his trunk and reached the doorway. Before Vinda could unlock the door Gellert met her eye and offered a more genuine smile, less cruel and more an offer of solidarity. “You’ve always been my family Vinda.” He said, and Vinda smiled properly, her eyes shining as she opened the door.  
“I know.” She said, and Gellert smiled, glad to be back where he belonged. 

They walked through narrow corridors lit at irregular intervals by pools of candlelight that served only to confuse an unwary traveler. Vinda turned the handle of a door that Gellert hadn't noticed and he blinked in the strong light of a summer morning. Gellert followed Vinda down a set of stairs that clung to the building they had come out of by only the crumbling plaster of the walls and some weak spell that Gellert could feel creaking underneath them. “Don’t trust this one.” Vinda called out from a few steps below him, and soon they were down on solid ground, Gellert’s boots shielding him from the worst of the filth that smeared the back alleys of paris as Vinda cast a protective spell at her shoes. They were fancy boots of patent leather that was dyed a soft green, but an enchantment shimmered around them and as Gellert looked more closely he began to see the faint outline of the roughly made clogs beneath the spell. He frowned at yet another reminder of his closest friend’s abrupt change in circumstances, wondering how she would be able to attend her last year at Durmstrang without her parent’s money for school fees. Deciding to bring up the delicate topic at a later date, Gellert offered her his arm and Vinda laughed, commenting on his gallantry. “Your stint in England has turned you into quite the gentleman.” She said, and Gellert bit the inside of his cheek at the casual reminder of everything he had lost.  
“You wound me madam,” he said, slurring the french they were speaking with a bad english accent, “I have always been the very pink of courtesy.” Vinda cracked up laughing, the double-entendre in the reference not lost on her.  
“All right Mercutio, I’ve got a plan.” she said, and Gellert felt himself smiling, unable to disguise his glee at being able to put a smile on her face despite everything that had happened.  
“Come on, we can talk it through over breakfast.” he said, and Vinda protested, pointing out that they weren’t in any position to be spending extravagantly, but Gellert clinked his last few galleons together and told her not to worry about the cost. 

Every draft of the excellent coffee they were sipping seemed to rejuvenate Vinda a little more, and as Gellert calculated how much he could buy with the last of his money she began to reveal her grand plan. “We need money.” she began bluntly, “And I don’t think either of us is desperate enough to sell your book collection.” Here Gellert nodded. There were many things he would do for money, but that was not even a possibility. Knowledge was power, and he wouldn’t sell his main source of strength for all the gold in Gringotts. “But I need money for school. I need my BÄZTs Gellert.”  
“I’ll do anything I can to help, but Vinda what can we do? I’ve no galleons left to scam a muggle with.” He said, and Vinda began to smirk.  
“You can duel.”  
“What?” he asked, wondering if he had misheard her.  
“You can fight. You can fight better than anyone I know. But no one else in paris knows that.” she said, eyes dancing with mirth as Gellert sat there, not connecting the dots until Vinda had opened her mouth again, probably to say something scathing.  
“You want to bet on me in a duel.”Said Gellert, the beginnings of a smile playing around his mouth. She nodded and after a moment Gellert began to frown. “Vinda, the next big duelling competition isn’t till after Samhain. You won’t be able to go back to school for the start of term.” He said, worried. Vinda looked around, almost nervous, and lowered her voice to a whisper despite the empty tables all around them.  
“I know a guy who can get us into the blood-wraith fight pits.” said Vinda, and Gellert felt his eyes widen. He had heard of the blood-wraiths in the news last winter, who hadn’t? A group of French mercenary wizards who sold their services to the highest bidder and ran an underground duelling circuit with the highest death count in the modern world, they had made the news when the french ministry had tried to remove them from Paris last November but they had simply vanished into the night, the bar they operated from exploding just as the aurors reached the scene. Gellert returned Vinda’s devious smirk, silently worried about the kinds of people she was involving herself with, before he pushed away the thought, trusting her judgement. He drained the last of his coffee and stood, the two of them walking back out of the café and into the sunlight as Vinda began to explain her plan in greater detail. 

Gellert had to sneak back into her room as Vinda was worried that if the theatre owner found out about him she’d be charged extra for her cupboard, and he frowned, wondering why exactly Vinda had chosen to rent a pokey little dressing room in the attic of a theatre. “It’s the cheapest place in the city, and I don’t even have to walk the boards for it.” She replied when he asked, and Gellert couldn’t help but laugh a little at the thought of Vinda dancing on a stage. She was graceful enough to do it, but she would never allow herself to be sexualised the way so many dancers were, and the first lewd commenter would likely find himself leaving the dance hall without his tongue. Vinda had sent a floo message to a man called Laurie and his reply suggested that they could meet him at midnight by the Arc de Triomphe, but she was restless and cagey afterwards. Pacing back and forth before flinging open the door, Vinda beckoned him out into the dimly lit corridor once more. 

“Where are we headed?” asked Gellert, but Vinda pressed on, silent, and he was left to his own thoughts. Vinda planned to let him loose on a pack of bloodthirsty mercenary wizards, winning the money they needed from the betting pool at every fight. He was less sure that their plan would work, wondering how these fighters would take it when he was better than their best. It seemed risky, winning their respect the only hope he had of living past his first fight, yet there was a smile on his face that he couldn’t dim. He was so angry, so cold, so helplessly alone that it seemed perfect. He could do with letting off some steam, relished the thought of the hot sweet taste of victory and the red that descended with every battle. Resolutely refusing to remember how his last duel had ended, Gellert let himself cling to the cold within him as he followed Vinda back out into the street. The sun was warm, the late morning lending the streets a golden sheen that melted away the dirt of the city and left behind a beautiful glossy version of Paris that shimmered in the heat, the most picturesque of lies. 

Vinda ducked into muggle Paris and pulled Gellert after her, the muggles lining the street oblivious to their arrival. Gellert tapped Vinda’s cloak and it transformed into a stylishly cut jacket in a pale beige that contrasted her dark hair delightfully, not worried about his own shirt, as it was sufficiently plain to pass as a muggle garment. They walked through a loud market towards The Seine, the river a flat looking glass that reflected the golden day they were walking through, and Gellert pocketed two apples, a block of cheese and two baguettes that he had shrunk down before being spotted trying to make off with a large pastry. He stood there while the muggle yelled abuse and then smiled, imposing his will over the muggle’s thoughts and walked away with a pocket full of floury francs from the baker’s stall and the large pastry in a paper bag under his arm. Vinda was shaking her head at him but smiled when he produced the stolen lunch from his pockets, and had no objection to digging in on it as they sat down by the river. 

They whiled away the afternoon and as they walked out of the fancy muggle restaurant later in the evening Gellert decided that nothing tasted as good if you had to pay for it. There was something in the act of stealing, he thought, that made food taste better, every delicate flavour more pronounced with the heady knowledge that it was forbidden to the thief. Vinda looked at him, fondly exasperated, when he voiced his theory, but couldn’t object to the truth of his statement. They had been enjoying a bottle of very fine champagne on the twilit grassy slopes of Parc Monceau when the clock of a nearby church had struck midnight, bells tolling out and Gellert leapt up. Vinda took his hand and apperated, the two of them appearing in front of the monument to muggle ego with a loud crack. Vinda smiled winningly at a short man with curling dark hair who was looking back and forth across the plaza with restless eyes, introducing Gellert as the man relaxed, sure he wasn’t being led into a trap. “Gellert this is Laurie,” she said, and Gellert smiled politely, not missing the way the older man’s eyes never left Vinda. Three more cracks rent the air in quick succession and Gellert found himself surrounded. The young men that had just appeared all stood close to his hight, their close cropped dark hair giving them a military look which Gellert assumed was supposed to be intimidating. “Good evening boys.” he said, and Vinda coughed, barely concealing her laughter at the confused expression he had managed to induce in all four of the blood-wraiths that had come to escort them to the fight pits. 

Gellert looked around at the place they had been apperated to, the sheer stone walls and tiered arena much more professional in appearance than what he’d expected. Mistaking his expression for awe, one of the three fighters who’d greeted them so tersely smiled cruelly at him. Gellert pulled an expression of fear onto his face and bit the inside of his cheek to stop himself laughing at how pleased the man looked. After looking him over a burly man smiled and called out a name. “Merrick. We’ve a newbie that’ll be good for you.” he said, to the laughter of a few of the other people there. Gellert bristled at their laughter, then let it go, his irritation flowing away down a river of ice that ran through his cold veins. He waited for a few minutes, Vinda standing by his side as the stone benches filled rapidly, the news of a new-blood fight spreading through whatever communication network the wraiths used. As the betting table was set up Vinda smirked and moved away from him. Gellert would be hiding his strength completely unless the opponent was vastly better than he was currently predicting, and he smiled at the thought. Maybe he’d stick to defence completely for the first half to lengthen the odds on his victory, he thought with a smile. 

As he steeped into the duelling ring the crowd broke out into jeers and shouts. He heard a few muggle slurs thrown at him and smiled, wondering how much the hecklers would like to eat their own tongues salted on toast. Something in his expression must have reached his opponent because he saw the man’s easy smile fall from his face as they stepped forwards. There would be no bows here, no formal duelling stance, and Gellert found his heart racing in anticipation, ready for the explosion of violence hanging palpably across the sand floor of the immediate future. The other man sent a tentative bone breaking curse at him which he neatly sidestepped and then the volley of curses began. Gellert wove his way between the red of stunners and sickly yellow of more bone breaking curses, ducked underneath a purple jet of light that moved too quickly to identify, and flicked his wand at the floor to the left of the other man. The jeering of the crowd echoed around the cavern and his opponent, Merrick the other man had called him, smiled, sharklike as he increased the pace of his casting. Gellert threw up a standard shield charm and began to back away, feigning fatigue as his opponent pressed in for the final victory. Making sure to look like it took the last of his strength, Gellert send a disarming charm at the man, who laughed and sidestepped. Gellert laughed then, he couldn’t help it, the mirth came bubbling up through his throat and echoed around the hall, dark and gleeful. The crowd stilled, silenced by his sudden change in posture, and the man in the ring looked at him, uncertain, then tried to move. Gellert’s spell took effect, the sand that the man was standing in rushing upwards and locking him in place. Gellert sent a blasting hex at the man to see what he would do about it, not expecting it to actually reach him unblocked, but a spray of arterial blood arced over the sand and when Gellert had blinked away his surprise Merrick’s left arm was smeared across the grey stone wall of the fight pit they were standing in and he was slumped over, the sand forcing his legs to remain upright as his unconscious torso twisted grotesquely in pain, the sand on the floor caking the bloody stump of his left arm. Medi-wizards rushed in, the crowd erupted into noise, his name was screamed by hundreds in the echoing chamber below Paris, and through it all he stood silent, allowing himself to taste the dark joy that always came in the aftermath of a fight. 

Vinda made her way down into the fight pit, a smile stretching from ear to ear as she rattled a sack bulging with galleons. “We did it, you did it. There’s enough here to pay for Durmstrang.” she said, and he smiled, a thread of genuine warmth cracking some of the ice within him as he realised that he had done what they needed to do. “No one wanted to bet on you, I won more than a hundred Galleons more than what we needed. Apparently that Merrick guy was something of a prize fighter.” she said, breathlessly happy.  
“That wasn’t very thoughtful of them.” he said, a smirk crawling across his face as a man walked towards him. “You’d think they’d give m a beginner, you know, just to keep things fair.”  
“A duel well fought. Would you be interested in fighting here again?” said the man, offering Gellert a hand to shake as h walked up to the two of them. The tiger tattooed on his palm stretched, opened its jaws in a yawn and stalked off up his arm, growing to match the size of the skin it was on as Gellert watched in awe. He took the hand and shook it, agreeing to another fight absentmindedly as he wondered if it would be rude to ask the man about his tattoos. Gellert shook himself, looking around at the crowd and smiling as he realised that he was favoured here for something as simple as winning a fight. 

Gellert was losing the warmth of the fight, losing the warmth of Vinda’s happy smile, shuddering as the ice of despair set back in as he and Vinda sat on the roof of the theatre. Vinda was too relieved about having money again to notice his sudden drop in mood, but he didn’t want to ruin the evening for her, so he forced a smile back onto his face as she turned around, two glasses of some drink he’d never tried in her hand. “To us.” she said, pushing a glass into his hand and clinking her own against it. Gellert downed his first glass of absinthe under the grey-black roof of Paris’s smoggy sky, blinking as the alcohol rushed through him and the magical wormwood’s highly potent flavour filled his mouth. As he looked up at the clouds above them flowers bloomed at his fingertips. He looked down in shock at the jasmine flowers that had grown between his hands and began to cry. He breathed in the heady scent they gave out, flooded his mouth with more of the green alcohol and laughed strangely, still crying as the jasmine turned blue around him. The blue of Albus’ eyes. 

Vinda was nowhere to be found, the rooftop empty as the sky greyed into dawn and the flowers made of sapphires shattered into nothingness. He looked around, suddenly needing to see that blue again, but his magic refused to comply. The empty bottle of absinthe mocked him, the ginning fairy depicted on the side of the glass bottle asking snidely if he had even made the flowers at all or merely seen them in some strange green-drunk dream. Gellert looked over the edge of the roof and suddenly there was a bridge made of cobwebs and wreathed in blue jasmine flowers leading out into space. Albus stood at the other end of the bridge, a smile in his eyes as he offered his hand to Gellert. He stood at the edge of the bridge and blinked, ready to walk into Albus’ waiting embrace, but when he opened his eyes he there was nothing there. He glanced down at his hands and watched as they stained red and blood began to drip from them. Arianna was lying inside the empty bottle at his feet and before he could do anything about it she had drowned in his blood, the bottle filling with red that began to look greener by the second as he watched. Albus was holding him now, saying something that he couldn't hear and crying. Gellert looked on, confused, as Albus kissed him softly on the forehead before melting into a pool of liquid lapis lazuli that burnt his skin when it touched him.

The next thing Gellert remembered was waking up, his face pressed into the rough roof slates as Vinda shook him into wakefulness and prized his fingers off the blood pact that he had clutching. His right hand was lacerated with cuts, the blood coming off in flakes as he stretched his fingers. “Gellert what happened?” asked Vinda, the sound echoing in his head like a cascade of glass. He explained very clearly what had happened, describing everything in minute detail only to find Vinda looking at him expectantly. “Well? What happened?” She said, and Gellert frowned.  
“I just told you. In detail.” He said, confused and wondered if Vinda was feeling all right after their drunken evening. Vinda caught sight of the empty bottle of absinthe and sighed, muttering something he didn’t catch and hauling him back to the room that they shared. Gellert protested, complaining that he liked the view, but she would have none of it. 

After Gellert had downed what felt like his weight in water and three very strong cups of coffee he began to feel a headache throbbing at his temples but he could once more separate reality from his absinthe induced dreams. “Vinda I enjoyed that drink immensely. Where can we buy more of it?” He said, dispelling his headache with a nifty healing charm that he’d only just remembered.  
“I’m never letting you near that stuff again. You were completely insensible.” Replied Vinda, and Gellert frowned.  
“You’re no fun.” he said, and Vinda laughed.  
“And neither are you when you’re babbling about jasmine plants of all things and arguing with glass bottles. I want you to relax today, while I go and spend some of my winnings on school supplies, and then I want you to meet some of my friends. 

Gellert had only tried to get up at around lunch time, but the floor flew up to meet him and he found himself lying down between the bed and his case of books, so he crawled back into bed and gave it up for a lost cause, summoning bread and butter and deciding that he’d rather eat now and have to deal with Vinda’s complaints of crumbs later than starve because he couldn’t in good sense get up. By the evening, when Vinda returned, he was feeling much more himself and apologised for his strange behaviour that had probably ruined her morning. She brushed it off, smiling until she caught sight of the plate on the floor next to the bed, and then threw an absolute fit about the bread crumbs in her bed but Gellert vanished them with a wave of his wand and soon the two o them were dressed once more. 

They made their way through a maze of twisting little corridors that seemed to double back on themselves and lead ever downwards once more. Gellert lit the way with a silent flick of his wand that conjured glowing lights, flickering a deep burnt orange for a split second before flaring up into the white light that he’d always produced previously and he flinched, trying not to react to the stark reminder of how much the blood pact hanging around his neck had changed him. Vinda had politely ignored his sudden hurt and Gellert smiled gratefully at her as they made their way into the back rooms of the dance-hall proper. People rushed past with armfuls of costumes and panicked expressions. Somewhere nearby a loud male voice swore viciously and a dwarf elbowed past Gellert without even stopping to apologise. Vinda threaded her way through the ever moving throng of people, Gellert hurrying to keep up with her, and knocked on the door of a dressing room. She used a complicated pattern of taps and thuds which was too fast for him to remember, and the door swung open on creaking hinges.   
Two of the most stunningly beautiful girls Gellert had ever seen were stood on the other side of the door, one with dark skin and a cloud of tightly curling hair who was half way through dressing, and the other her opposite, with pale skin and silvery hair that seemed to glow. As soon as they spotted him something changed, their features sharpening into something almost bestial before they rounded on Vinda as one. “How could you bring that here? You know what happened to Nuuamaca.” Said the pale girl, the green of her eyes flashing a catlike yellow as she defended the other woman. Gellert was thoroughly confused by now, wondering what exactly was going on, and Vinda was only making things worse. He found himself longing for Albus’ comforting touch, his hand going to the blood pact and tracing the sharp edges before he realised what he had ben thinking and felt the ice descend once more upon his soul.   
“Look at him, does he look enthralled to you?” Vinda was yelling, gesturing towards him impatiently, and though he was still very much in the dark, the two strange women seemed to give it some thought.   
“No,” said the dark skinned one, Nuuamaca, her voice filled with a sad kind of wonder, “He looks broken.”   
Gellert was still more than a bit put out by the comment when introductions had been made properly, but he bit back his sharp retort, trusting Vinda’s good judge of character. Nuuamaca had dark eyes that stared out at him with an expression torn between suspicion and fear, half hidden by a lock of the tightly spiralling hair that hung down in a cloud around her shoulders, the dark curls pulled downwards by their own weight. He held her gaze for a moment and then shifted in his seat, not expecting the flinch his movement would cause. He was quick to apologise and she seemed mollified, but Gellert was left wondering what had happened to these people. The pale girl, who had introduced herself as Soluna, seemed very defensive of her friend but as he continued to talk normally the girls began to relax.   
Vinda was smiling as Soluna began to smile at him strangely, eyes glittering with intent, and Gellert felt magic wash over him, some strange kind of inhuman force that echoed around his head before dissipating, leaving behind the mental image of Albus lying on his back in their cottage as dappled light fell through the window to caress his skin. Gellert frowned, his cold eyes glistening with tears for a heartbeat before he shut himself off, pushing away the image with gritted teeth and opening his eyes to see the two women staring at him, then at Vinda with twin looks of incredulity. “How could he resist it, that was a full allúre?” asked Soluna, and Gellert realised what had happened with a start. They were Veela.   
“I prefer the company of Al— of men.” he said, voice hitching as he tried to say Albus’ name, and tried to smile as the two Veela relaxed, politely ignoring his sudden melancholy. Vinda muttered something about being right, yet again, and Gellert laughed as Nuuamaca pushed her hair back under a vibrant yellow cloth and smiled brightly as she sat down next to him, her wariness evaporating in an instant. 

“So Vinda, how long have you been hiding Gellert from Monsieur Sunelle?” asked Nuuamaca, her smirk reminding Gellert of Kaz from Durmstrang, and as Vinda replied he wondered how the older boy was doing. He’d forgotten to keep in contact with all of his friends from school save Vinda, swept up by the whirlwind that was Albus Dumbledore, and Gellert felt his shoulders slump, teetering on the edge of losing himself in memories once more before part of the conversation of the three women drew his attention.   
“Remember when you’d just met us and we were worried about accidentally stealing your lovers?” cackled Nuuamaca, and Gellert laughed as Vinda smiled fondly at the memory.   
“How does one accidentally steal a lover?” he asked, and then winced internally when Nuuamaca hunched in on herself. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean—” he said, but Soluna put a hand on Nuuamaca’s shoulder comfortingly and began to explain.   
“The allúre can be turned up or down but we can’t turn it off completely. Men don’t tend to stay faithful with us around.” She said, and played it off with a laugh, but Gellert could hear real hurt in her voice, and he couldn’t help but feel for these two strangely sad Veela.   
“I’m so sorry. It must be terrible for you.” He said, and Nuuamaca laughed harshly.  
“Oh that makes it all better. You’re sorry that it’s hard for us.” She spat, and Vinda winced as Gellert reached out for her hand. To the surprise of the other two girls in the room, Gellert still had fingers a second later, Nuuamaca letting him offer the comforting contact.   
“I didn’t mean to sound like I’d solved your problems. I’d like to, but nothing has ever changed with meaningless platitudes and a simple charm.” He said, his voice as soft as he could make it, and he thought he caught a glimpse of a smile behind the guarded look Nuuamaca fixed him with.  
Back in Vinda’s room, Gellert slumped onto a chair that he had transfigured as Vinda sat down on the bed, careful to move the lumpy mattress as little as possible so as to leave Lamellar undisturbed. Cixi had made herself comfortable on the bare curtain rail earlier but was nowhere to be found, the small window’s shutters flung wide by her escape, and Gellert smiled fondly at the cat curled up on the bed for a moment before remembering what had made him so angry. “How can the ministry be so cruel?” he said, his voice cold with a rage that was beginning to taste like home in his mouth.   
“Gel, changing things would require effort. Of course the ministries around the world won’t do anything about it.” replied Vinda, her voice tired, and Gellert glowered at the wall.   
“We need to take over. I wouldn’t allow that kind of thing if I were in charge.” he said, marvelling at how unsurprised Vinda seemed. Soluna had just told the two of them that Veela were classified by wizards as ‘Beast’ rather than ‘Being’ and Vinda hadn’t even looked vaguely shocked. Gellert was outraged, his magic crackling angrily as he discovered quite how twisted the French Ministry of magic was. Veela couldn’t get justice for sexual assault by wizards, couldn’t even carry wands to defend themselves, and when Soluna had threatened to kill Nuuamaca’s assailant she’d only narrowly escaped being put down like some kind of animal. He wouldn’t stand for it, these were people who had nowhere else to turn, no one who would speak out on their behalf, and he would make this right.   
“When we rule the world,” said Vinda, expression a mirror of Gellert’s determined scowl, “Thing’s will be different.” 


	2. Ignem Aeternum

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> On the hunt for a distraction, Gellert manages to redefine the impossible once more, but the silence of his life without the companionship he had grown so accustomed to during the summer begins to take its toll. Absinthe didn't solve his problems and throwing himself into cutting edge spellcraft proves to be more effective. His grief is downed in pride and a new fire has been lit in his eyes, but how long can the distractions last?

In Gellert’s dreams two titans clashed in a field of red and white jasmine that grew out of countless graves, one wearing the sun as a circlet of white-gold fire and the other wearing a crown of blood and lightning that tore the clouds apart. The dream changed and Gellert watched as a man with silver wings fell, a meteoric blaze of light, blue flames licking his twisted silhouette as he plunged downwards. The light went dark, the flaming man put out by some great lake that shimmered in the distance, and then the sky shifted, a box closing in on him until he was trapped by the black night sky in a cell. He felt something wrench his jaw open and a jagged knife cut deep into his tongue. Blood filled his mouth, the metallic taste jerking him out of the vision as the waking world slowly trickled back into his sight. Right eye glowing, Gellert took in a great shuddering breath, tremors shaking his form in a way that hadn’t happened since Indus had died, but the shivering soon subsided into nothingness and Gellert wrote up the vision in the battered notebook that he had charmed to have endless pages so many years ago. Shifting off his end of the bed without disturbing Vinda’s sleep he crept out to the roof, some part of him longing for the endless stars of the countryside. 

The sky was a dull black, freed of both clouds and stars by the lights of a thousand lives being lived all around him that crushed the night sky into a sad imitation of the stars Albus might be lying beneath in Godrick’s Hollow. Gellert knew he shouldn’t think about it, knew that he shouldn't be seeing Albus’s smile every time he closed his eyes, but every mile between them was beginning to send stabbing pains through his chest and the bond ached as if it were slowly cutting its way through him. He sat in the cool breeze as the night faded into another dawn without the man he loved, grey seeping into the sky as Gellert stared out into the night of magical Paris, blinded by memories as the street lamps were doused one by one.

There was something exquisitely bittersweet about doing shopping for Vinda’s final year of Durmstrang and watching with a fond smile as she stepped onto the Lady Durm, all the while knowing that he wouldn’t be joining her, but for her sake Gellert bit his tongue and ignored the low burn of regret and jealousy. He was all she had, and he wouldn’t allow her to feel abandoned over something so small. When he and the Veela got back to the theatre he thought he’d saw a similar glint of pain in Soluna’s eyes, but it was hidden beneath her usual smile before he could be sure. Nuuamaca spoke up as they all sat down, fixing him with a knowing stare. “You’d like to be going back.” Gellert nodded sadly in response, wondering when he’d become so easy to read.  
“Where did you go to school?” He asked, searching for a less introspective topic in the desperate attempt to avoid thinking about Albus, and then winced as Nuuamaca shared a sad look with Soluna, wondering how he’d managed to offend the two veela this time.  
“Veela aren’t permitted to attend wizarding schools.” Said Soluna, eyes flashing with muted rage before resignation took it’s place. Gellert blanched, feeling a little nauseous at the depth of prejudice that these two women and their people faced.  
“That’s awful. You’re just like wizards, but with some additional powers. Things need to change.” Soluna let out a cynical bark of laughter.  
“Our people have been trying to fight it for almost a century but the international confederation of wizards refuses to hear our side of any story.” she said, her tone curling with bitter resentment. Gellert smiled grimly, his mouth set in a hard line as he spoke again.  
“I was thinking of something a little more large-scale than a legal battle. The ministries are cankered pits of corruption, the masses are too stupid to realise. What we need is a total reform.” he said, “Freedom for magical kind, education for whoever wants it, a lift on the bans put in place on dark magicks. It’s everything we want for the future.”  
“We?” asked Soluna, and blue eyes and a breathtaking smile flashed across Gellert’s vision, pushing a sob up through his throat. He bit his tongue and swallowed, choking around the lump of tears before he managed to croak Vinda’s name. Nuuamaca smiled at him sadly and Soluna pulled him into a one-armed hug. “You are a very strange wizard Gellert, but it’s good of you to care.” She responded, though not without exchanging a curious glance with her friend. 

That night Gellert couldn’t feel anything at all. Every person in Paris was nothing more that a paper cut-out, wizard and muggle equally insubstantial without Vinda to remind him that other people really existed. The veela were new, and and though he liked them and pitied them in equal measure they weren’t real to him yet, just a beautiful, tragic animated image. All around him lived flat things in the shape of people locked in a cycle of repeated patterns, and even the many wrongs that he could usually summon so much rage to fight against brought him nothing. Gellert could hardly swallow, his tongue dry and heavy in his mouth as he looked up at the ceiling, able to see the city around him, every life playing out against the cracked plaster in his mind’s eye. None of it felt real. 

He mustered up the strength to turn his head and the window brought him no comfort, sullen clouds building up towards a storm as the night closed in, and Gellert exhaled, his lungs feeling like glass as he tried not to let his mind wonder to the only real people he knew. Vinda was three dimensional, Imari too, but it was his equal that he needed now. Albus, Albus too-many-names Dumbledore, with his charming grin and his blue blue eyes that swirled with infinite dimensions and were always sparkling with some new theory. Albus whose conversation could make his mind race, actually having to try to keep up with the startling leaps of brilliance that matched his own. Albus, who had woven his way into Gellert’s life, and whose absence had torn a hole in his heart that no amount of ice could numb. Gellert didn’t feel cold anymore, he felt empty. There was no pushing it away any longer, he had nothing left to push with. There was nothing to distract himself with, nothing between him and the crushing sense of emptiness that could act as a shield. He had been staggering on, held together by anger and loyalty to Vinda, but Vinda had gone away to school and now he had nothing that could keep the fractured pieces of his being together. The ice inside him had melted, there was nothing left to fuel his anger with, and so Gellert lay there on his side, staring out of the window into the night feeling hollow boned and desolate. He was nothing. 

Hours spilled past; blood from a wound in his chest that burned and ached with the pain of everything that he’d lost, and still Gellert felt nothing. He felt a single tear drip down his face as the clock tower of Notre Dame struck one, the end of the witching hour, and he bit his tongue, longing for the distraction that physical pain would bring. In the corner of his eye he caught sight of a necktie in an inoffensive green of his that Vinda must have unpacked before leaving, and suddenly he knew how to move again. What he needed was an arithmantic problem of distracting complexity, and if none were forthcoming he would make his own. In his mind’s eye one tie became two and he felt his heart leap as he began to live again. If there were two ties in identical boxes, one a well cared for silk and the other ragged sacking, indistinguishable by either spell or sight, how would one choose? The arithmancy poured forth, variables floating before his eyes as he jerked into a sitting position. If you chose one and then were given the choice to choose again, would it be better to stay with your original choice? At first glance it looked simple, it wouldn’t matter, but as he thought about it more he became less and less sure. 

Ink spilled across pages as Gellert wrote, the cuffs of his shirt stained with the black-blue of fountain pen ink as his thoughts spilled across the dry parchment. Even as he wrote a part of him railed against the inanity of his question, but he shoved that thought into a shrinking box in his head until he could continue. Right now his arithmancy didn’t have to have a point, so long as it was filling the holes in his heart. The sky greyed and lightened as his candles burnt low, his smile fading with the darkness as he reached an unsatisfactory conclusion. For any number of choices larger than two the better option would be to swap every time, however with two he couldn’t prove any kind of definitive answer. He copied out his notes and sent them to the Arithmancer’s Almanack offices, putting the proof for a non-answer down below his proofs for numbers above two as he fought the apathy pooling once more in his mind. He needed another distraction, needed breath to bloom once more in his lungs. 

Gellert turned up to his next fight drunk. He watched as laughing crowds swayed around him and when he went for his wand he found it further from his hand than he expected, but he threw up a shield to block the first attack even as his throat burnt with the acrid aftertaste of fire whiskey. The vibrant orange curse that came at him next looked like a fear-based spell and Gellert laughed, catching it on the end of his wand and sending it back to the casters hazy shape with a neat flick. He felt his leg snap and looked down, confused as the bone shattering curse took effect and his left knee sent searing pain through his leg. He felt another spell coming and threw up his Euler shield without thinking about it, his mind too hazy to remember the healing spell for a broken joint as his head rang with pain. He fired a volley of curses, disarming to dismembering, and from the screams some of them must have connected, but he didn’t see the man fall, so he allowed himself to crumple, his wand tapping the floor as he muttered a fluid displacement charm. The oscillation he’d created ran towards his fuzzy opponent and knocked him down, allowing Gellert to flick his wand in a final disarming charm which connected, unlike his earlier attempt. Something pulled his gaze sharply upwards and in his pocket the blood pact seemed to jump, the pull in his chest forcing his head to turn towards the back of the amphitheatre where a blaze of copper hair was backlit against the lights trained on the fight pit. He opened his mouth to yell out Albus’ name when the figure disappeared through the swinging doors, Gellert suddenly doubling over in pain as the bond was stretched taught once more over miles of ocean. A burly mediwizard with swirling green eyes and skin the colour of cinnamon caught him as he fell, his vision whiting out as the adrenaline faded and the pain of his knee hit him in full force. 

He dragged his way back through the black treacle of unconsciousness to see the same man smiling at him, and as soon as he opened his eyes the man broke into laughter. “You are back among the living, boy.” he said dryly, and then sobered, glancing at the door before he spoke again.  
“I couldn’t believe the alcohol content of your blood when I checked it. Why would you fight in that condition?”  
“Well it’s only fair to give the opponent a chance.” replied Gellert, his smile a calculated mixture of cocky and self assured as he looked up into the other man’s face. A laugh, a knowing shake of the head that spoke of having heard that before, and Gellert forced a smile on that came out somewhat less brittle than he thought he could manage.  
“What’s you’re name boy? I can’t keep calling you The Drunkard in my head.” Asked the man with an easy grin.  
“I’m Gellert Grindelwald, It’s a pleasure to make your acquaintance.” The man laughed.  
“I’m Davinash, and I only wish I could say the same to you.” Gellert rolled his eyes, feigning exasperation, but he didn’t have the time to form some petty witticism in response before the man, Davinash, spoke again. “Why are you here Gellert Grindelwald.”  
“Why is anyone here? To win.” he replied, a smile returning to his face, this time slyly confidant, but the man shook his head.  
“No. Why are you really here? You don’t fight to win, I’ve watched you do this twice now. You could step out into that ring and decimate the competition in seconds, but you don’t. You taunt them with a show of weakness and then win with non-combative spells. Why are you here.”  
“To train. To become the best fighter I can be.”  
“No, I don’t think you are. There is something in your eyes, in your movements. A desperation.” he replied, and Gellert looked up sharply, wondering how anyone could tell that much from his fighting style alone.  
“Fine. You’re right. I don’t come here to win, I come here to forget.” he said, filling his voice with the appropriate cocktail of bitterness and hurt that the statement called for. The man considered him for a moment and then nodded, apparently satisfied by Gellert’s half truth. 

Leaving with a genuine smile a little later, Gellert walked out of the infirmary and up a gently sloping corridor hewn from stone, trying to convince himself that his high spirits were the product of nothing more than his victory and the interesting conversation that had followed. As he stepped out onto the cobblestones of the alleyway entrance to the fight pits he glanced up, the fleeting cry of a house martin wheeling above drawing his attention skywards, and he took a sharp breath in in surprise. The stars had come out again. When at last he arrived back at the theatre he crept through silent corridors, the thick dust swept into corners by the memory of a hundred feet hurrying through the honeycomb of passages that burrowed through the wooden walls of Vinda’s makeshift home. Gellert’s silent feet carried him through the winding paths that spread like veins from the stage that was the centre of this strange world and before he knew it he was sitting at the desk in Vinda’s room with a pen in his hand, staring down at words he hardly remembered writing. ‘Dearest Albus,’  
With a growl he tapped the paper with his wand and the ink lifted away, coagulating in the air before flowing back into the fountain pen. He would write to Kaz and Imari, he decided, and he put his pen to the paper once more. 

The letters were perfectly polite, friendly, businesslike and utterly unlike Gellert. He clenched his fist and watched as the two sheets of paper crumpled and began to smoke. They crumbled into ash before his sharp gaze and he smiled bitterly, knowing what he was going to end up doing and unable to stop himself. ‘Dearest Albus,’ he began again, and as he did so something seemed to leap in his chest. 

‘I saw you there tonight. I felt you, how could I not? When the ache of our bond was suddenly nothing more than the faintest of pinpricks.’ 

The words poured forth like they always had, his handwriting just this side of legible as his thoughts became a torrent, ink splattering as he hurried his writing. Gellert felt something inside him begin to mend, the thought of seeing Albus again a balm to the wounds torn into his soul as he wrote, the ink staining his fingers in his hurry to say everything that he hadn't had the chance to when they’d parted. 

‘Everything has changed for me and yet the world keeps on turning, today I caught a glimpse of you, and so against all reason I find myself hopeful once more. I feel like I can breathe for the first time since I left, and the world seems bright again. It’s been awful without you, but I’ve been thinking about worn ties and the probability of making the right choices, and something of the like should be appearing in the Arithmancer’s Almanac soon. It would have been thought of faster if you were here beside me, or perhaps not thought of at all, as it was only a distraction from the colourless world I find myself trapped in without your companionship. Will you come to watch me fight again?’

It took everything Gellert had to sign the end of the letter, ‘Ever yours, Gellert Grindelwald.’ Every fibre of his being longed to keep writing down his thoughts, a stream of conscience that would be sent to the only one who could possibly understand, but with the final line he managed to relax his grip on the pen in his hand and fold the letter neatly, transfiguring an envelope from a spare sheet of parchment and readying some wax to seal it with before he paused, and added one last line, the words scored into the paper with a heavy hand, their gravity clear in the desperate slant of his writing. 

‘I wake thinking of your eyes and fall asleep to memories of your embrace. Do you still dream of me?’

He sealed it before any more of his desolation could ink its way into the message, pressing the seal they’d designed together into the warm wax. A clear impression of The Hallows was visible in the pool of quickly cooling beeswax that he’d let Albus charm a royal blue flecked with glittering silver what felt like a lifetime ago, and in spite of himself Gellert smiled, feeling strangely weightless and hopeful. He cast a fireproofing charm, swore as he realised that there was no fireplace in the room and conjured a fire in the empty mug resting on the sideboard. He threw in a pinch of floo powder and watched as the crackling flames danced around the rim, suddenly a ghostly green, before sending the letter through to Godrick’s Hollow and trying not to let doubts crush the flicker of hope in the hole where his heart had been ripped open. 

Gellert slept easily as the toll his fight had taken on him caught up all at once, fatigue crashing down into him in a wave, and he woke well rested as the bright midday sun beamed down on Paris. He needed a floo box permanently, couldn’t bear to wait a second longer than necessary for a reply, so after a breakfast of cold sausage roll that still tasted excellent he made his way out into the streets in search of something he could repurpose as a smaller fireplace. He thought that he could probably conjure one, but with intent based magic it wasn't a good idea to charm the product, as the magic would interfere and could end up collapsing if the arithmancy broke down as repeat use wore away the spells. He didn’t want to spend any money but just to be on the safe side he would, after all it was of upmost importance. 

Meandering through an open air market in muggle Paris, Gellert spotted a stall selling used bags and boxes, and walked over, too busy looking over the wares to see how the milling crowd of muggles parted before him like shadows from a struck match as he strode forwards. The box he liked most was half buried beneath a battered suitcase, the lacquered wood a deep red stained mahogany that seemed to call to him, and before he could think he’d reached out a hand and pulled with his magic, the box leaping into his hands from where it had been shoved. The stall owner crossed himself and muttered a prayer, giving Gellert an idea. He wouldn’t have to pay here, not when there was so much pure fear in the muggle’s expression. Concentrating, Gellert clicked his fingers imperceptibly and glamoured his eyes, black swallowing the whites and irises as he smiled, his spell sharpening his teeth to fangs and reddening the skin of his face. “God save us all. I’ll not give in to your temptation Demon.” said the man, and Gellert took the opportunity to disillusion his chosen box, the glamour falling away as he spun on the spot and called out for help.  
“I believe this man is ill.” he called out, making sure that his accent didn’t creep through the French. “Can anyone help him?” A few muggles stepped forward and he smiled, explaining how worried he was about the stall owner who had started babbling about demons and temptations, obviously hallucinating some horrific nightmare. “Is there anything I can do to help?” He asked, his face the picture of concern, but he was waved away.  
“Best not son, he’ll be alright soon enough with us looking after him.” Said one of the other market men, his easy manner of speaking strange to Gellert after spending so long with hostile fighters and wrathful Veela. He nodded sharply and walked away, his face splitting into a cruel smile. It had been far too long since he’d done something so pointlessly mean, since before he’d met Albus really, and the familiar rush of cold laughter tore its way up through his throat as he revelled in the memory of the muggle’s expression. Why hadn’t he done more of this recently? A small voice that sounded suspiciously like Albus suggested that it was childish and unnecessarily cruel but he pushed the thought away and allowed himself to enjoy the simple warmth of spite that the con had brought him. 

Sitting on the bed, the desk too cluttered presently to use for this kind of delicate spellwork, Gellert dredged up everything he knew about the floo network and began to do the necessary calculations for his box. He didn’t think that he could make it safe enough to travel through himself, but letters were much easier to transport through the fire and he knew that that at least, he could manage. With a half-rueful smile he put aside his pen and checked over the arithmancy one last time before he began to carve the necessary runes onto the inside of his beautiful mahogany box. The lining was quickly taken care of by a nifty little curse that he’d modified at school over a year ago from an intestine removal spell and the paper cutting charm, and in the blink of an eye it was spellcraft ready. He traced his wand over the chalky runes, burning their likeness into the wood and leaving behind an oil-slick iridescence in the grooves he’d made as the magic sank into the surface of the box. With the inside connected to the floo network, he began to work on making sure that the boxes charms would hold if he moved it. The book he’d picked up on the way home suggested that it was an impossible feat, but then no one had believed that you could make a warding system portable until he’d done it with his coat, so he was undeterred by the claim of impossibility. 

Smiling at the finished box, Gellert carefully moved it to a precarious position atop his larger travelling case, jamming it next to the case with a rotating bookshelf. It wouldn’t break, that he was sure of, his protection charms would hold against anything weaker than the Povey’s Pyre curse, a destructive fire spell he’d read about in Albus’ book collection that escaped the label ‘unforgivable’ by only a hairsbreadth, and he slumped back against the pillow with a satisfied smile. Everything seemed to click into place, his newest creation had almost assembled itself, and, he realised with a jolt, this could be massive. He could make some serious money here, and before he sent his notes anywhere he would need a patent. It was time to return to Berlin. He gripped his box tightly and disapperated, stepping out of his room in France and into the hustle and bustle of central Berlin, opening his eyes to see a familiar street and hearing the softly comforting tones of his mother tongue after what felt like far too long. 

Striding into the patent office, box under his arm as the coat that he had charmed to grow with him swirled in the draft, he cut an imposing figure. “I have a new magical device that requires a patent.” He said, and was met with a few blank stares. A man laughed, pointing to a chair and indicating that Gellert would have to wait his turn. “I’m Gellert Grindelwald, if that makes my claim more likely.” He added, and one of the other people in the office turned around, expression skeptical until she spotted him.  
“I remember you. My, you’ve done some serious growing since you were last here. Come on in.” She said, and Gellert grinned, viciously pleased at the expression of shock on the man’s face. 

When he had the crisp embossed paper of the german ministry that gave him creative rights for the portable correspondence floo he relaxed a little, apperating back to the theatre and wondering if there was a spell he could create for eternal flames that wouldn’t eventually leech on his power. He knew the spell for bluebell flames, knew all the basic fire starting charms, could coax fire from nothing with a click of his fingers, knew Fiendfyre and Gori Detka Gori, both highly destructive pyromancy, but none of the spells he knew would conjure an eternal flame without a constant source of magic. Furrowing his brow with a smile, Gellert seized the distraction with both hands and tried not to let the silence bother him. It should be impossible, he was sure that it violated at least one of the fundamental laws of elemental charms, but he couldn’t keep a grin from his face. This was a real distraction. Hours melted past and the late evening faded to night, the grey of the morning creeping over the horizon before he had registered any time passing at all. Thumbing through an alchemy text he’d picked up the summer before meeting Albus as the sun rose, Gellert found himself remembering the glow of obsession in Albus’ eyes when he’d talked about the philosophers stone, and the memory sparked an idea. With the light of a new idea burning through him Gellert summoned all of the Alchemy books in his considerable collection as well as his notebook containing the arithmancy that had led up to his fourth dimension spellcraft and sat down on the bed to re-familiarise himself with BÄZT and mastery level alchemy before he attempted anything drastic. 

At some point after the sun had once more made its way beneath the earth, Gellert smiled widely, excitement radiating off him in almost palpable waves. He pointed his wand at the inside of the box and took a deep breath. “Ignem Aeternum.” he said, the words a whisper half way between a prayer and an oath. The spell worked beautifully, the brilliant red-gold light from his wand bouncing off the vector planes he’d created in four dimensional space and then bound to the incantation, reflecting through the angles needed to to concentrate it into one point in the centre of the box. The light flared up, a miniature sun of brilliant white, before cooling to the warm orange flames of a wood fire without the fuel. The air needed for combustion was channeled through the vertices of the complex shape still visible in the glowing afterimage behind his eyelids, and the fire he’d so carefully crafted leapt and danced merrily inside its lacquered red box, hot to the touch and yet not showing any signs of burning the wood of the vessel. He had done it. He held the key to eternal fire.

Carefully closing the lid on his greatest creation to date, Gellert moved it to the floor behind his travelling cases where it wasn't likely to draw too much attention and lay back on his bed, limbs stretching as he arched his back, the satisfying clicks a testament to how long he had spent in one position. He smiled, the metallic taste of loss that he had grown so used to overwhelmed for once by the sweet flavour of success as he allowed himself to revel in the magnitude of what he hd just achieved. He, Gellert Grindelwald, had disproved the second law of elemental magic at the age of seventeen. He felt as if he could float, his mind occupied wholly by his success with a supposedly impossible problem and the elegant solution he had created, and the victory felt real. He was real, he could feel the scratch of the low grade sheets and in a fit of self-indulgence he snapped his fingers, the coarse cotton beneath him transfigured into silk in the space of a second. He could hear his heartbeat thudding in his ears, still elevated from his earlier tension, and suddenly things seemed less silent, a little less two-dimensional as he fought to keep another wide smile off his face. He swung his legs down over the edge of the bed and made as if to stand up, swaying on his feet in the grip of a sudden lightheadedness before deciding to re-evaluate the decision. It had been one of the most intense research binges he’d ever been on, the spellwork taxing before he had managed to correct it; bringing the power levels required down to a reasonable figure, and he had no idea how long it had lasted. He felt a pain lancing through his stomach and wondered how many days it had been since he had eaten, how many hours since he’d last slept. At the thought of sleep a wave of exhaustion crashed over him and he lay back down hurriedly, wondering idly if he could represent tired-ness graphically as a wave as he slid into dreamless sleep. 

When Gellert woke he was wearing a lazy smile that refused to fade. For the first time since meeting Albus he’d woken up thinking about something other than him, and Gellert realised with a start that he enjoyed it. He had just disproved the second law of elemental magic and he deserved, he thought, to bask in feats of magic such as that. Albus would write back to him, he was sure of that, but it could wait. The first order of the day was to get food, preferably with coffee and in large quantities. 

Gellert ate six buttered croissants and could honestly say that he didn’t feel any less hungry afterwards. He found himself longing for the rich taste of German Eintopf, the thick vegetable and meat soup of his childhood home, and apperated away without bothering to pay muggle francs for his meal. He hadn't been thinking clearly about his destination and when he opened his eyes he saw a very familiar kitchen, the scorch marks from his many pranks with Vinda still visible on the wall behind the cooker. He had unconsciously sought out his mother’s home. Almost as soon as he’d had the thought he heard footsteps, but let himself melt away before she could see him there and reappeared in the street outside a little restaurant that he remembered as doing the best Eintopf in the city. He didn’t want to chance a conversation, couldn't bear to let the fragile glow of accomplishment he felt be crushed by another confrontation with someone dear to him, and it was far easier to simply disappear. He walked into the restaurant with his smile still fixed onto his face, the expression now feeling slightly forced, but he traced his hand over the spine of his newest notebook for comfort and sat down with a small genuine smile in place. He was in the process of writing up notes on the creation of his fire spell and the notebook went with him everywhere, it’s durable cover made from layers of hardened doxy wing carapaces making it supposedly immune to wear and tear. Ordering a bowl of soup, he began to relax, feeling less hungry and homesick as he rushed thought the brilliant meal and asked for another portion. 

His pockets lighter after his hearty meal, Gellert meandered towards the market entrance to Magical Munich without really thinking about it, finding himself stood before the stone dragon as his feet took him down the familiar streets of the city of his childhood. “It’s been an age since you visited Lordling, and you’ve been changed by it. Perhaps it will be Lord soon. Not quite yet. You’ve not done enough, but you’re getting there.” said the stone dragon, the guardian of the gate as cryptic as he remembered. He nodded politely and then he was through, the archway opening to reveal the sprawling streets and shimmering lamps that lit the inside of every shop of the magical sector. Gellert took a deep breath in and closed his eyes, imagining for a second that he was still the boy he had been when he was last here, a small smile gracing his lips as he let himself be lost in the smells and sounds of the familiar streets around him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter took significantly longer than expected to appear than I thought it would, mainly because I've been worked to the point of exhaustion and my body demanded sleep on more occasions than I'd anticipated. Insomnia only works for so long kids. 
> 
> As always I look forward to hearing your opinions on the latest chapter, so please leave a comment and as ever, Happy reading.  
> I think the next chapter will be up by this time next week, or sooner, as I have no pressing concerns and a lot of free time. Keep an eye out for it. 
> 
> Happy reading,  
> Frumion.


	3. Little Yaotlpilli

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Gellert reconnects with an old friend and finds laughter again, receives a letter from a very influential alchemist of note, gets books back that he thought he'd left behind and makes an interesting new acquaintance. With high hopes and a broken heart Gellert is hoping to move forward but on the eve of success his past pulls him away. Will he choose to listen to his heart?

“A Modern Prometheus.” The title above his proof sent a thrill of pride through him as he opened the latest issue of the arithmancer’s almanac a week later. October had arrived in Paris flanked by sudden rainstorms and a chill in the air that Gellert relished, and he had taken to walking through the city in the early mornings and letting himself observe the daily comings and goings of the muggle and wizarding communities as the leaves fell, paving the city in a carpet of gold that all too soon was washed away into an unassuming brown. The last few days had been busy, Gellert preoccupied with writing up his notes on eternal fire and then sending them off to both Arithmancy and Alchemy publications for peer review but he couldn't have helped noticing the steady amber of his eternal fire. No green had danced into being, no letters had arrived. Albus hadn’t responded. The silence was disconcerting, a bitter thing he couldn’t escape thinking about, and it had been beginning to leave bad taste in his mouth, but the proof would change that. As he comforted himself with the thought, the fire inside the box danced green and his heart rose into his throat, the hope of a reply rising like a tide within him. It was the latest issue of The New Alchemist, his name written just underneath another title proclaiming him “Today’s Prometheus, Tomorrow’s legend.” Gellert let a smirk stretch across his features and tried to ignore the stab of disappointment he felt. The letter would have to come soon. 

The following day there was a knock at his door and he answered, wand in hand and completely unsure who would be behind the wood. “Imari?” he said, wondering why on earth the other boy could be here, and slightly more worryingly, how he had been found.  
“Long time no see my friend.” said the boy, an easy smile gracing his lips as he looked up at Gellert.  
“Not that you’re wrong about that, but why are you here?” asked Gellert, not sure how to word his question delicately and hoping that Imari still found his abrupt manner as funny as he had while they’d both been in school.  
“Can I not pay my good friend a spontaneous visit?” he asked with a laugh, walking into the room that Gellert was staying in and blinking in surprise. “Cosy.” he added dryly, looking around in faint horror at Gellert’s small living space.  
“I assume it’s my newest proof that brought you back. How’ve you been?” He said, Imari feigning a wounded expression as he replied, hurt colouring his tone.  
“Gellert how could you suggest such a thing? I’m merely here to catch up with an old friend.”  
“Of course, of course.” Said Gellert, the sarcasm thick in his voice. 

Gellert had forgotten how funny Imari could be, the small man’s infectious smile lightening his own mood until he was fully involved in the easy flow of conversation, the months they had spent not talking melting away as Imari recounted his summer and Gellert teased him about his BÄZT results. “I’m a year younger and I managed to best you in everything but potions.” He taunted, and Imari laughed, then assumed a sly expression that boded ill for Gellert.  
“Hey, at least I’m not living in a room the size of a shoe box with no money and no job.” he replied, and Gellert smiled, not the slightest bit self-conscious about his living situation.  
“I’ve got better things to do than work for my money. Like disproving the second law of elemental magic.” he said, his tone imperious, and Imari laughed, then managed to force himself into a solum expression as he spoke again.  
“Sounds like a fancy way of saying you can’t get yourself a real job.” The two of them burst into laughter almost simultaneously and Gellert realised that it was the first time he’d really laughed since Vinda left a month ago, the relief of the sensation bringing a genuine smile to his lips as they calmed down.  
“Speaking of money, I think we should eat out.” He said. “And out of the goodness of your heart you should pay because I’m you’re tragically impoverished friend.” Imari laughed, shaking his head ruefully.  
“Fine, fine. I can’t believe I forgot that you’re like this.”  
“Like what?”  
“I can’t really describe it. You’re very—” Imari paused, searching for an adequate phrase, “Unique.”  
“I’m going to make that as a compliment you know.” He replied, a wide smile creasing his face as Imari began to laugh again. 

The other man left the next morning, Gellert extracting a promise to stay in contact that he felt obligated to ask for before he waved Imari off at the international floo network’s nearest fireplace. They had talked through most of the night, arithmancy and alchemy the main topics of discussion, but it rang hollow and Gellert was glad to see the last of him for a while, too preoccupied to really listen after a few hours. It had been nice to see a friend but he’d overstayed his welcome. After stopping in a muggle coffee shop and confunding the waiter into thinking he’d already payed he felt a little less irritated, but the anxious energy that had woken him fitfully with the sunrise refused to dissipate.

There was still no letter. 

The following night was long, every leaping amber flame a disappointment that he was pretending didn’t hurt as green failed to illuminate his room. As the sun rose once more he slammed the lid of the box down and went to see Soluna and Nuuamaca, determined to spend his day doing something fun. His knock on the door of their dressing room was an echo of the one Vinda had used to let them know that it was a friend requesting entrance and he heard a strange scraping sound before Soluna opened the door suspiciously. “Gellert.” she said, her expression brightening into a smile. “We thought you’d died a painful death. Where’ve you been?”  
“I’ve been busy telling the lead wizarding academics where to stick it.” he said, cracking a smile and feeling a frisson of warmth when his acrid response elicited a laugh from the prickly Soluna. “They think that just because they can’t do something themselves it’s impossible, or dark in some way.” He added, carefully watching her responses as he pressed where he thought it might hurt. True to form the veela flinched a little, Gellert priding himself on his accurate analysis of the situation even as Soluna replied. Her accent was thick, much worse that Gellert’s was, presumably brought out by the suddenly passionate bitterness she felt. It took Gellert a moment to identify what she’d said as “j'en ai ral le cul  
avec cette merde,”. ‘I’m so fucking fed up with this shit.’ He twisted his face into a sympathetic frown, wondering if she would expand on her statement, but at that moment Nuuamaca poked her head out of the back room the two of them shared to say hello. 

The three of them sat and talked for hours, Nuuamaca teaching him some veela runes from her enclave that brought up a physical barrier around the enchanter before he bid the two women goodbye and made his way back to his room. The first thing he did was open the box to see if a letter had arrived, and his heart leapt into his throat for a moment when he saw the envelope lying there at the bottom of the small chest before he registered the entirely foreign handwriting. Ignoring the latest twist of the proverbial knife in his chest, Gellert turned over the letter to have a look at the seal. It was an insignia he knew well, Albus’ many rants on the Flamel family having burnt the image onto the back of his eyelids more than once. He bit his tongue, blood filling his mouth and helping him to forget the sharply serrated edges of the bond tugging at his chest as memories threatened to drown him. He refused to be disappointed because the letter was from a world expert in alchemy, he absolutely refused to allow himself to feel that way, so he opened the letter with all the excitement he could muster and began to read. A smile spread across his face against his will as he read, the familiar glow of pride warming him when he finally reached the end of the letter. 

‘I have been fascinated by your most recent breach of the laws of magic, and would like to invite you to stay with me and my wife in the Manor I keep in France for a partnership in alchemical research.  
Kind Regards,  
Nicolas Flamel, Professor of Alchemy and Creator of The Philosopher’s Stone.’ 

Gellert couldn’t feel the disappointment of a moment before, the burning joy of getting a chance like this to work with Flamel drowning out the constant ache emanating from his chest. He wrote back immediately, accepting the offer and asking what it was they would be researching. He carefully rewrote his response, leaving out all of the probably invasive questions about the effects of immortality and making sure to come across as a studious but well mannered wizard. He signed the letter with a simple ‘Gellert Grindelwald.’ resisting the urge to add any titles after the fact, after all he didn't want to come across as too pretentious. He blew on the ink and sealed the envelope with his stamp of the Hallows, then vanished it, not wanting to use someone else's symbol for correspondence with someone so renowned. He transfigured a sheaf of paper into a block of wood the length of his finger and then nicked his finger, letting the blood magic reform the wood into a plain stamp. With another drop of blood he changed the seal into a quick design of his initials and transfigured it into a silver metal stamp embossed with GG, the first initial reflected so that the spiky letters were symmetrical. With a smile he sealed the envelope with some blood red sealing wax and sent it off through the floo, hardly even glancing in as he closed the lid and then wrenching it back open, shocked at what he saw. 

Gellert did a double take, heart suddenly hammering in his chest as he saw it. There was a parcel in his floo box. He didn’t want to get his hopes up, didn't want to taste the bitter disappointment he knew he would feel if it were once again from anyone but Albus, but he couldn't stop his heart from racing. He pulled the brown paper off the parcel and blinked, unsure if what he was seeing was real. All of the muggle books he had cut in half and left in the cottage beyond Godrick’s Hollow were neatly stacked in the same order he had left them in, whole once more and smelling like jasmine. He didn't know what it meant. Opening each book and half expecting a note of some sort, Gellert’s blood rushed through his ears loudly and then filled his mouth as he bit his tongue, the pain grounding him as he realised that Albus hadn’t sent a note. What Gellert didn’t understand was the point of the gesture. Did Albus want him to keep the books because he knew Gellert had liked them, or was it more symbolic. Was this Albus’ way of saying goodbye? No, It couldn’t be. Perhaps he had mended the books in an effort to show Gellert that things were still fixable. Albus had given him the books and they had meant to very much to him, he thought to himself as tears welled up in his eyes, and he was glad that he had them back regardless of what Albus had meant by returning the gifts. 

He scrambled for pen and paper, questions splattering themselves across the blank sheet before him in his hurry to speak to Albus again. All thoughts of the brilliant opportunity he had just been handed pushed to the back of his mind as hope bloomed in his chest that Albus could forgive him. He threw the piece of paper into the fire with a sprinkle of floo powder, too rushed to bother with an envelope, and in his haste he sent the pile of mended muggle books to the ground. His ‘Complete Works Of Shelly’ lay open at ‘To ___.’ the famously unaddressed love poem that had been his favourite, the lure of the mystery catching his attention whenever he’d been idly reading. The first time he’d ever heard it it had been Albus speaking the poem aloud, and he’d addressed it to Gellert as they lay in the shade beneath a large sycamore tree just beyond Godrick’s Hollow. Gellert had laughed and stolen the book, writing Albus’ name where his had been spoken a moment before, and then they’d been distracted, too wrapped up in their own story to close the book. It wasn’t until later that Gellert had noticed that Albus had changed the writing back to his name, and spelled it to stay that way, for no matter what he’d tried his name refused to be removed in favour of his lover’s. Now he stared, transfixed by the sight of the page and the ivory jasmine flower that had been crushed flat against the delicate ink of the second stanza. 

Rose leaves, when the rose is dead,  
Are heaped for the beloved’s bed;  
And so thy thoughts, when thou art gone,  
Love itself shall slumber on.

Could this be mere coincidence? Gellert didn’t believe that Albus could be so careless, couldn't bare to believe it. A smile grew across his face and he ran his fingers over the blue-black inscription of his name at the top of the page, reverently un-crushing the single jasmine bloom that had been left there with a tap of his wand. He conjured a solid glass octahedron around the flower to preserve it, drawing permanence and preservation runes into each face of the shape at the corners before conjuring a glass circe and adding the runes that would tie the two pieces together. The octahedron was spelled to float above the circle with a levitation rune pair he’d read about the summer before last that only required a drop of the caster’s blood applied once to work permanently. Once he had applied the charm he slid the glass circe onto the desk, then added a fiddly charm that would make the whole object unbreakable and smiled, inhaling the slightly stale smell of jasmine that had been crushed into the pages of the book. Albus would write back again soon, and then perhaps in time he could have back what he’d thought was lost forever. 

Weeks flew by as he corresponded regularly with Nicolas Flamel, eventually arranging an initial meeting in Paris for late November, and before he knew it Samhain was approaching. Paris was unseasonably cold, feeling more like Gellert’s home than ever as sleet drove the multitudes inside. Gellert revelled in the cold, loving the bite the air had developed and the way frost brought a natural magic to each morning, but he was growing more concerned by the day. Albus had gone silent. No more messages came, no reply to any of the many letters he had sent, and as the autumn equinox approached Gellert decided to send Cixi, knowing that she would be much harder to ignore than a letter. She returned in two days, feathers ruffled and with no visible correspondence. 

He was bitterly angry, Cixi had sent the image of a strange forcefield at him, and how the spell had made her skin itch and burn when she’d tried to get through, and it enraged him that Albus could be so cruel to his Familiar. He’d sent a letter saying so, but there wasn’t so much as a flicker of change in the strangely dulled misery he could always feel pooling on Albus’ side of the bond so he assumed that his latest letter, like so many others had gone unread. Gellert did his best to distract himself, heading down to the fight pits of the Blood Wraiths more and more frequently to blow off steam, eventually squashing the dwindling hope that Albus would show up to another of his fights after weeks of feeling the bitter taste of disappointment rise in his throat again and again. 

He was standing in the ring the week before he was due to meet Nicolas Flamel, blood pouring from his arm at an alarming rate as he faced an Oriental man with a duelling style he’d been underprepared for when he caught sight of a flash of red in his vision. Copper hair. He turned to look, throwing up a strong modified shield charm as he scanned the crowd, but it was the wrong man. His shields flickered as he tried to swallow down the sob caught in his throat and another cutting curse hit him, his right hand now slick with blood, and he began to feel lightheaded. In a desperate last effort he threw aside his wand and smeared his blood through the air, leaving a trail of scarlet that quickly took the shape of a rune as he forced magic into it with sheer desperation. Before the dark haired man at the other end of the pit could move, Gellert sent his blood rune spinning towards him and smiled as it struck, opening his mouth to utter the incantation that would end things. He’d never used the destructive Egyptian glyph on a person, and vaguely wondered what would happen as his head swam, but before he could draw breath to say the words his vision faded out and darkness took him. 

When he came round he spat bloodied sand and smiled darkly, watching as his opponent’s name was screamed by countless people he’d been cheered by just days ago, and the disloyalty made his blood boil. The fight wasn't over yet, he thought grimly to himself, and when he stood mutters ran around the room. The man turned away from the crowds to face him once more, the mark that would bring Gellert victory still glistening wetly on his cheek, laughing mockingly and saying something Gellert couldn't hear over the blood rush pounding through him. He smiled grimly and finally gave the runes power. “Hi Di.” He said, his voice inaudible over the yelling and stamping of the crowd but loud enough for the magic to take effect. Power rippled through him, a surge of energy that set his hair on end as the smiling fool he was facing exploded, blood and guts spinning in all directions as chunks of meat no bigger than a timepiece flew across the room. A sudden silence echoed through the high ceilinged cavern, the watchers shocked into a stunned quiet, but not for long. As pulp that had been a brain moments before soaked into the sand a solitary man began to clap, his scarred face twisted into a smile. A cacophony of yells and accusations began to rise out of the silence but Gellert couldn’t look away from the man who had begun to clap. He picked up his wand from where it had fallen and tapped his robes and skin, thinking ‘Tergeo’ and smiling slightly as the splinters of gristle and bone that had clung to him were flung to the sand and the blood that had coated his clothes and hair lifted off in a fine mist of red. He started, remembering the odd applauder in the crowd and look back up to where the man had been and saw no one. 

After a few nifty healing charms Gellert made his way to the edge of the ring and found himself being given a wide berth, the people around him falling silent as he walked past, and he couldn't quite decide if he liked it or not. He inhaled and tasted fear, an uncertain smile on his face as he moved, the crowds parting for him as they scrambled over themselves to avoid his touch. The odd man who’d clapped was waiting for him by the doors with two glasses of what looked like a dark blend of firewhiskey, and jerked his head in the direction of a small door Gellert had never noticed before in the corridor outside the fight pit. With a soundless swing the thick stone door opened onto a room, the splendour of which reminded Gellert of Black Manor. The deep blue stone of the floor glimmered as if lit from within and the pale wood of the furnishings counteracted some of the oppressively dark atmosphere as lamps shaded with the light blue of a summer sky flared into light around the room. 

“Have a seat.” said the man, gesturing to one of the three sofas arranged in a semi-circle around the fireplace. Gellert frowned as he sat, not quite able to place the odd accent that curled around each word the man spoke. “Drink, you must be shaken by the fight.” he added, and Gellert frowned.  
“Why would I be?” he asked, not missing the flash of surprised pleasure on the man’s face at his response.  
“You just killed a man. Doesn’t that bother you little Yaotlpilli?” The strange word sounded like no language Gellert had ever heard, nothing in Europe sounded anything like it. There was no common root word to work with, no latin or germanic root to any of it, and Gellert found himself smiling, the puzzle entertaining, but the man was waiting for his answer so he shook his head, the warmth of his victory melting the ice that had threatened to creep through his veins. He had only done what he’d had to, and after all, it was for the greater good.  
“I won.” he said shortly, a sharp smile designed to cut crossing his face before he asked the question that had stopped him from completely relaxing. “Will there be some sort of sanction because of what I did?” The man laughed long and hard, wiping away tears of mirth before he composed himself and spoke once more.  
“No, no, have no fear, after all this is no usual duelling circuit. The blood wraiths are not named so for the intimidation factor alone.” Gellert breathed a sigh of relief, worry that he hadn’t actually realised was nagging at him melting away.  
“I’m Gellert—” he began, but the man cut him off. 

“You are Gellert Grindelwald. You have been involved with the infamous black family and have one close friend in Paris who brought you here because she needed school fees. You’re an Ex-Durmstrang student who was expelled at the end of the last academic year for ‘twisted experiments’ after completing the curriculum a year early.” The man’s eyes were glittering, Gellert noticed, disconcerted by hearing a total stranger speak about his personal life. “Primarily an arithmancer, you have just made major changes to alchemy, fight inside my ring with runes and charms, speak five languages and yet don’t ever say spells aloud. Gellert Grindelwald, you are the very definition of an enigma.” he continued with a delighted laugh. Gellert didn’t know how to respond to the concerning amount of knowledge the man had on him, thankful that Albus at least had been left out of the list, but he was wary of the odd stranger.  
“Sir you put me at a disadvantage. You clearly know a lot about me yet I do not even know your name.” he said, hoping he had not offended and internally readying himself to blast the door open and escape.  
“Yes, I suppose I do.” Replied the shiny eyed man, his accent still completely foreign to Gellert. “My name is Tlaloc Cipactli. I am the master of the fight pits, the leader of the blood wraiths and currently very intrigued by you, Yaotlpilli.”

Gellert smiled and sipped his drink, surprised to find the liquid tasted like dark chocolate and burned like vodka. “What is this and where can I get more of it? It’s a thing of beauty.” he asked, liking unexpected flavour and unable to resist commenting on it.  
“You will find it nowhere else on this continent Yaotlpilli.” said Tlaloc, a satisfied smile playing around his lips as Gellert drank again, trying to identify what else was in the drink.  
“Why do you call me that?” he asked, the spirits allowing him to be much less formal than he otherwise would have been. “Because it suits you.” replied the man, eyes laughing at a joke Gellert couldn’t understand, speaking again before Gellert could ask what it meant. “How did you learn blood magic?” Gellert laughed, pouring himself another shot of whatever it was that he was drinking.  
“I read a book.”  
“That’s not possible.” Said the man, suddenly intense. “There are no books on the blood magic you used tonight outside the warded lands.” Gellert sat up straight, nerves jangling as he wondered if he had misheard. 

“You’re Aztec.” He breathed, eyes shining with curiosity as he sobered up, the surprise shocking him out of the lazy ease he’d been drifting into with the help of the alcohol. The man nodded, then asked again where he’d learnt blood spells.  
“It’s an interesting story really.” he began, remembering with a smile his first blood based magic. “I’ve been using blood to power spells since I was eleven. I needed more shelf space than was offered so I grew some more from the walls with my blood.”  
“How did you know it would work?” asked the man sharply.  
“Well the funny thing is, I’d read about it in a book written by a muggle. It was English originally, though I’d only read the german translation then, and I thought I’d give it a try.” He said, thinking fondly of his newer copy of Blake’s complete works.  
“Written by a muggle? Impossible. Tell the truth little Yaotlpilli, or you won’t leave this room alive.” The man was angry now, unwilling to believe the secrets of blood magic could be so carelessly rediscovered, but Gellert narrowed his eyes and began to recite the poem that had been the first step on the road that brought him here. 

“I was angry with my friend;  
I told my wrath, my wrath did end.  
I was angry with my foe:  
I told it not, my wrath did grow.  
And I watered it in fears,  
Night & morning, blood and tears:  
And I sunned it with smiles,  
And with soft deceitful wiles.  
And it grew both day and night.  
Till it bore an apple bright.  
And my foe beheld it shine,  
And he knew that it was mine.  
And into my garden stole,  
When the night had veiled the pole;  
In the morning glad I see;  
My foe outstretched beneath the tree.

It’s by William Blake, muggle poet. I have no reason to deceive you Tlaloc, and no desire to die. I speak the truth.” When he had finished the poem he smiled sunnily at the man and forced himself to remain solum despite the laughter threatening to bubble up in his throat at the man’s shocked look.  
“That still doesn’t explain tonight. How did you learn blood glyphs that dangerous. Surely it was no muggle poem that inspired that.” Snapped Tlaloc, and now Gellert did laugh.  
“Well once I realised how powerful it was I began to explore, and that wasn’t a blood glyph, it was just an overpowered Egyptian hieroglyph for to-destroy written in blood.” The man was looking at him the way adults usually did when they realised what he was. The moment of realisation when they had to readjust how they looked at him, suddenly realising that he was an intelligent equal with real power was always sweet, and Gellert was glad to know that he was exceptional even by Aztec standards. 

Tlaloc seemed eager to talk the night away and Gellert was only too happy to comply, prying information about his homeland out of him slowly throughout the night. He didn't say much, his dark eyes flashing in amusement with every leading question Gellert asked, but he seemed to enjoy Gellert’s attempts at subtle questioning so he saw no reason to stop, and he knew more by the end of the night about the Aztec capital than any other person in Europe who hadn’t seen it. As the sun rose over the frosted windows of Paris, Tlaloc came to the main point he had been edging towards all evening. “I would like to teach you more Yaotlpilli, and if by the express wishes of the high mages of Tenochtitlan I am allowed to do so, I could give you the tools you will need.” he said, his tone reverent as he invoked the name of his city. Gellert smiled, a dark smile that had grown dusty from disuse over the summer with Albus that bloomed across his face once more as he refilled his glass.  
“Need for what?” he asked, and Tlaloc laughed.  
“For the change you wish to bring about, and the storm it will bring. You think I’d forget to research what you want to do? I’m not sloppy Mr Grindelwald, and I don’t make mistakes that easily. Your debates are remembered fondly by several witches and wizards a little older than you.” Gellert looked at him, disconcerted all over again by the amount the man had managed to dig up about his life, but he didn’t feel up to asking about how he’d found it all, too comfortably drunk and enjoying his company too much to question him properly. He staggered out of the strangely ornate room hours later and made his way up through the twisting tunnels back to street level, walking through the door with the man’s strange goodbye ringing in his ears. Blinking in the bright cold sun of the November afternoon Gellert dizzily made his way home and fell into bed, asleep as soon as his head touched the pillow, too tired to check the floo box as he usually did before succumbing to sleep. 

A few days later Gellert could hardly sleep he was so exited. He would be meeting the only known creator of the philosopher’s stone in less than three days, and he couldn’t settle to anything. He had written three lists of questions titled Historic, Alchemical and Personal, and all of them were far longer than he’d planned them to be, but at least, he thought to himself, he was prepared. Though it was only mid afternoon Gellert was exhausted, the past two nights of sleepless contemplation blurring his vision with the need to sleep but his mind wouldn’t let him rest. As he turned over in the fruitless attempt for some sort of nap he found himself wondering if Albus would be envious of him now, working with Nicolas Flamel and learning the secrets of Aztec culture. He might be exited about the alchemy, but he’d be horrified by Gellert learning blood magic. He could try to fool himself into thinking that Albus would support it all but even in his daydreams his lover wouldn’t condone something so taboo. Gellert had never understood his squeamishness when it came to the ‘dark’ arts, always biting his tongue when the subject came up, not wanting to push Albus’ incredible capacity for forgiveness too far, but it was far too late for that now. Laughing hollowly to himself at the inanity of his musings, Gellert tried to push thoughts of his lover away, but as always he fell asleep thinking of blue eyes. This time they shimmered with tears, still exquisitely beautiful in their broken misery. 

He lurched awake as a horrible fear gripped him. He couldn’t breathe, couldn’t escape the crushing cold of the water, couldn't reach the surface. As he blinked the sleep from his eyes the feeling faded, his lungs sucking in air and not brackish sea water, but the panic remained constant, pulsing from his chest in a sickening parody of a heartbeat as he coughed. It was the bond. Albus was drowning.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ATTENTION, THERE IS A ONESHOT FROM ALBUS' PERSPECTIVE THAT TAKES PLACE BETWEEN THIS CHAPTER AND THE NEXT ONE. IT IS PART 4 OF THIS, AND CONNECTED BY THE SERIES LINK. GIVE IT A LOOK. 
> 
> Comments are always appreciated. The next chapter should be up within the next 48 hours. 
> 
> Happy Reading, 
> 
> Frumion.


	4. Funeral Flowers

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Gellert Grindelwald has a closet full of skeletons, a painful truth to admit to himself and a plan of action. He has loved and he has lost, saved and condemned the man he loves, and now he faces a very uncomfortable question, but what will be his answer?

Gellert wasted no time, letting the bond pull him through space towards Albus as soon as he’d grabbed his wand. He appeared on some kind of platform hanging over the sea, shed his night shirt and braced himself for the cold Albus was feeling, wand clutched tightly in his hand. He performed the bubblehead charm and then dove downwards, the seawater feeling much warmer now he was here himself than it had felt through the bond, used to the Russian winter as he was, and then he started to panic. Albus’ heartbeat, so frantically panicked a moment ago had begun to slow. Desperately he followed the pull of the bond, the pain he felt an echo of flickering in and out as Albus’ heartbeat grew ever slower and he grew closer to unconsciousness. Gellert swam down into the green depths following the ache in his chest and finally spotted Albus, pale in the murky light. He took his desperation and forced everything he felt into a pull, the water between them parting as he all but summoned Albus to his side. He quickly extended the bubblehead charm and breathed a sigh of relief as Albus’ heart rate steadied, the frightening drops and stutters gone now that he had an air supply. 

When he broke the surface the bubblehead charm faded for both of them and he levitated first Albus and then himself back onto the pier, his own heart racing as he realised what had just happened. The gravity of the situation shook him, the thought that he might not have got there in time haunting his every breath as he took in the sallow state of Albus’ skin and the way his cheekbones had become almost knife sharp. Gellert struggled to his knees, Albus cradled in his arms as he wondered what had happened. There must have been some kind of struggle, but who could have overpowered someone as magically capable as his lover? He didn’t know. In the corner of his eye he caught sight of a flash of white and summoned it, thinking it might be a clue as to the assailant’s identity and finding his vision blinded by tears when he realised what it was. The crown of jasmine flowers. 

There had to be another explanation. The sinking feeling in his chest didn’t mean he was right. Albus wouldn’t have done something like that to himself. The wreath didn’t mean anything. The wand so carefully placed on top of the flowers he had threaded trough Albus’ hair months ago didn’t mean what he thought it did. It couldn’t mean that. To distract himself he tried to think of something to do, somewhere he could take Albus while he recovered, and his first thought was The Study, the space they’d built together where so many of his happiest memories were made. Where he’d left his message. In the space between Albus’ heartbeats he was there, but the cottage was not. Nothing stood in the glade that they had shared so many hours of the summer in, when they had believed that they would be forever. As Gellert crunched his way through the frost that had iced a layer of shimmering crystal over the ruins of the cottage he realised that they were both cold. His drying and warming charms seemed to help a little but Albus was still shivering, unconscious and far too light in his arms without the wet layers of cloth giving him the illusion of a healthy weight. With nowhere else to go, The Dumbledore Residence too full of memories for him to trust himself to be back there, he apperated back to his cupboard room in France, shattering his way through the french ministry’s wards in his haste to get Albus somewhere warm. 

He lay the cold form of his lover out on the bed and wished it were under better circumstances that they were here together, running his finger through red hair that looked like blood against the pale clammy skin beneath Gellert’s hands. “Come back to me.” He muttered, mouth close to Albus’ ear as he spoke, hope fading fast as he felt a frisson of fear shoot through him. Had he been to late? No. There, the fluttering breath that kept the world turning was still stuttering across his cheek when he bent close to make sure. “Please, please come back to me.” He murmured, and then something changed. His cough had changed. Deeper, halting and then with a shuddering gasp Albus Dumbledore was back from the dead. 

“What have you done to yourself?” The question hung in the air between them, harsh and cruel and not at all what Gellert had meant to say.  
“What I did? What about you. What did you do to me?” Albus’ voice was rasping and delicate, unsure, as if he hadn’t spoken much recently, and his words cut Gellert from the inside out. He had meant to be loving, had mean to say so many other things when he was finally in the same room as his other half, but everything had changed when he’d realised that no one had attacked Albus but himself. He had tried to die, he had thrown himself off that hulking muggle structure and given himself up for dead. Albus was too thin and too pale, too quiet and too resigned, but he had enough strength left to hurt Gellert. “You killed me Gellert. You killed me months ago when I had to watch vain, ignorant muggles bury my sister. I just tried to keep up.” Gellert reached for him then, pulled him close and began to cry into a shoulder that cut, too bony and almost frighteningly malleable. Once Albus would have been able to overpower Gellert physically, now he turned his face away from Gellert’s, too weak to even throw off a hug. Everything they had built together had fallen into the sea, and Gellert held what was left of his lover close, afraid that if he let go Albus would disappear like smoke, find The Seine and finish what he’d started. The cottage was gone, all that was left of it freezing under a thick frost two hundred miles away and he suddenly realised how much three months had changed them both.  
“Please Al, talk to me.” It was a desperate attempt doomed to failure, but, as if by some strange magic, it worked. 

“The silence…” Albus trailed off, his voice still strangely hoarse, before he tried again. “The silence was everywhere.” Gellert felt the tremor that shook Albus as he spoke, reassuring him with gently soothing motions, not knowing what he could say that could possibly help. “Every room in that house is full of memories and every time I breathe in I choke on ghosts.” continued Albus, the tortured whisper haunting as Gellert lay by his lover, silently supportive as he wished away the months they had spent apart. He never should have left. As the night wore on and morning broke they slowly relearnt how to sleep in the same bed, Albus curling into Gellert’s side like the final piece of a puzzle he hadn't realised he was trying to put together until it was already complete. It was the best night’s sleep Gellert had had since the summer. 

When he woke the bed was unnaturally cold but before he had time to panic Albus rolled over, his body fragile and seeming even smaller than it had at first. Gellert was horrified by what he’d let happen, scared and angry and not sure how to deal with Albus’ newfound fragility. In all his plans and contrivances to get Albus to see things his way he’d never imagined something like this. Albus had hollows beneath his eyes that looked almost bruised, waxy skin and collarbones that jutted out alarmingly. He had probably almost starved, too busy destroying himself to eat or sleep and Gellert felt a sudden wave of anger. He should have felt this, should have felt how much weaker Albus was becoming. He should have been able to tell from the bond, should have felt the draining hunger and abject misery, which meant only one thing. Albus had been blocking the bond. That dull pain he’d felt wasn’t real emotion, just a pale echo. He had shut Gellert out. 

He didn’t stop the hug he had so carefully administered, didn’t let himself get up and blow something up, didn’t go to the fight pits the way he had become accustomed to when dealing with anger, but it burnt and ached and the raw hurt echoing down the bond couldn't be good for Albus but he couldn’t help it. The knowledge that if Albus had just let him back in he could have helped, the idea that Albus had hated him that much that he would occlude to stop Gellert feeling anything through the bond, it hurt. The bond itself was warm in his chest, singing with a hot pleasure that sent electricity down his spine at the proximity of his bonded, and Gellert couldn't stop his fingers tracing the lines of Albus’ cheekbones, relearning the harsher line of his jaw and fluttering every now and then across his pulse point, reassuring himself that his lover was still alive. Even as his touch grew gentler still, his mind began to throw more fuel on the slowly burning fire of his anger. Albus had shut him out. Albus had been messing with his head, returning his books without a word. Albus had tried to kill himself. 

The last thought sent a chill down Gellert’s spine as he wondered, bile rising in his throat as he thought about it, what would have happened if he hadn’t been there in time. Albus would have died, and as sickening a thought as that was on its own Gellert was struck by another. What would have happened to him? The lore surrounding blood pacts was contradicting, some sources stating that one death would soon be followed by another, others saying that colour would be leached from his sight forever, but all agreed that there would be some terrible consequence if half of a bonded pair died. They had linked their souls with the power of a stolen star, magnified the power of the bond tenfold, and Gellert thought for the first time that they might have made a terrible mistake. Albus had tried to kill himself, and there was no small chance that it might have killed Gellert too. Suddenly the room seemed too small, the walls closing in on Gellert as he began to breathe too fast, and he clutched the blood pact tightly, not caring about the cuts it tore into the flesh of his hands as rage and hurt battled for dominance behind his eyes. Albus coughed himself awake and smiled lazily at Gellert, pulling him down into a harsh kiss. As their mouths met Gellert’s anger melted away with the months they’d spent apart and in his mind summer bloomed again. 

As suddenly as the kiss had begun Albus stopped it, wrenched away with guilt dancing in his eyes as Gellert met his gaze, hurt and confused. He brushed a hand along Albus’ too sharp cheekbone and leant in for another kiss. “I’m sorry.” Said Albus, turning his head to the side in a half aborted flinch, the words hanging in the air between their lips and shattering Gellert’s internal warmth.  
“Why are you sorry?” He said, wincing at the hurt colouring his voice. “I hardly mind you kissing me, I love you.”  
“I’m sorry,” began Albus, his voice stronger than it had been in months. “Because I can’t do this.” The words cut through Gellert like ritual knives and he looked at Albus through a shimmer of tears before anger dried his eyes and left him feeling cold and clear.  
“No.” Albus looked at him, a mixture of sharp amusement and confusion pulling his mouth into a slightly cruel half-smile. “You clearly can’t be trusted to live by yourself.” Gellert’s voice was hard and cold, the ice in his tone leaving no room for argument, but all of it cracked into painful shards of hurt when Albus looked at him with that crystallised pain shining in his eyes.  
“That was low, even for you.” The guilt crashed into Gellert, a wave of pity and self-loathing that almost crushed him, but he set his jaw and spoke again, driving the knife in his own chest further in with every word.  
“You could have killed us both last night, or had you forgotten that our lives are bound together by this?” He said, the blood pact gripped in a hand caked with blood. He had been looking for some flicker of sorrow, but saw nothing.  
“I considered it.” Albus’ voice was cold, ringing clear and horribly sincere in Gellert’s ears as the sharp edges of the blood pact sent pain lancing through his hand. Albus hadn’t tried to kill himself. He had tried to kill them both. 

Gellert forced his anger to one side, forced himself to remember the man he’d bound himself to as he had been then, with the summer light casting a halo around his red hair as they laughed together. That man was still inside Albus somewhere. This Albus was colder, harsher and thin in a way he never had been before, but it was still Albus, and even with every hurtful thing that they had tried to wound each other by saying hanging between them Gellert still loved him. He didn’t know if he was capable of not loving Albus. In the cold half-light of the evening it didn’t seem likely. “I love you.” He murmured, knowing Albus would hear it but unable to keep the words locked behind his teeth. The man he had tied himself to sat up, wincing and putting Gellert in mind of when such an action would have meant a night well spent and not the bone deep ache of nearly drowning. Gellert watched as he pulled on his many layers but stopped him when he reached for the door. “Where will you go?”  
“Home.” Replied Albus shortly, his eyes going dull as he said it, and Gellert laughed, the sound cruel.  
“Home? Back to the house full of ghosts and memories that almost killed you? I think not. Stay here for a few days, I won’t touch you, not if you don’t want me to. I won’t even talk to you if you’d prefer that, but don’t go back there. Please.” His voice had started out harsh but by the time he had finished speaking there was a softness lacing every word that he hadn't meant to reveal. He saw the decision in Albus’ eyes before he spoke and breathed a sigh of relief.  
“I’ll stay,” Albus’ voice was whispery again, as if the thought of the house had sent him back into his almost voiceless grief. “But please don’t touch me.” he finished, still barely audible.  
“Ok. That’s ok. I can do that.” Replied Gellert, tone still helplessly caring as he met Albus’ eye and tried not to let his lover see how much the request had hurt, even though he had known what was coming when Albus agreed to stay. 

Gellert couldn’t get the arithmancy to work out. He had spent a chilly night on the floor, exhausted from the magic he had used up shattering through the french border wards, and horribly aware of how careful he was having to be with Albus. Gellert was up before him, trying in vain to distract himself from his emotions by throwing himself at another intellectual problem. It was a transfiguration based curse that Gellert ended up trying to modify for healing as a distraction from the salted wounds Albus had left him with, and he didn’t quite know how to change his current formula so that it would work. He could probably figure it out, he thought to himself bitterly, but it would take time, and since Albus was awake by now he might as well ask. “Could you have a look at this Al?” He asked, unable to hide the undiluted compassion in his tone as he spoke.  
“What is it?” replied Albus, his tone stiff and too polite, barely audible from where Gellert was sitting at the desk.  
“A transfiguration problem. I think you’ll like it.”  
“Ok. Pass it here.” Gellert got up and made as if to hand his papers to Albus directly, then thought that he might be uncomfortable with that and placed them gently on the covers of the bed. Albus looked up at him sharply, unspoken thanks written across his features that warmed Gellert, the bond humming with a gleeful sparking power as the small silent interaction took place. Albus broke his gaze and rubbed his chest absently, clearly not used to feeling so much from the bond, and picked up the papers Gellert had offered as a sort of peace offering. 

After a few minutes when the only sound in the room was Gellert’s pen in Albus’ hands, the subtle sound of it drawing across the paper as he worked. Gellert watched, transfixed by the sight that was so strikingly familiar and yet alien that he couldn’t look away. “There.” said Albus, the pen that Gellert had left him years ago in a cottage that was no more hitting the bedsheets as he offered the finished formula to Gellert. The blue-black ink that Gellert preferred began to stain the blankets, a growing pool of shadow as the nib oozed colour and Gellert took the papers back with a hand that he hoped Albus couldn’t tell was shaking. Looking over what Albus had done Gellert smiled, shaking his head and muttering about how he should have seen it himself and trying to disguise what seeing that looping script was doing to him. It hurt, to have Albus so close and yet so far out of reach, but seeing that handwriting amending his work once more felt life the beginnings of forgiveness. He shook away the thought, focusing on the proof at hand and smiled, offering Albus a quiet thank you and a small smile. Everything had changed. 

Gellert pulled out the floo box in an effort to distract himself from everything he felt and saw a letter that could only be from Nicolas Flamel. Gellert flicked his wand and a glowing blue clock face appeared showing the time as a quarter past twelve. Swearing bitterly, he grabbed his coat and shrugged it on, opening the door and then turning to face Albus. “I forgot all about a meeting I’m having. I really can’t miss it, it’s a great opportunity. Please don’t leave while I’m gone.” He said, and had almost closed the door when he heard it. Albus had murmured a goodbye. 

With a helpless smile Gellert apperated away to the restaurant he had agreed to meet Flamel in, spotting what could only be the alchemist sitting in a window booth with a frown on his strangely drawn features. “So sorry I’m late.” He said, his tone apologetic as he offered a hand to shake, then realised his mistake in offering the english greeting.  
“I thought we were in France boy.” Said Nicolas Flamel.  
“Too much time among english wizards I’m afraid. I spent the summer there with my great aunt.” he replied, and sat down. As the conversation flowed Gellert found his footing, soon back into the groove of being deep in academic discussion with a true master of his field, and he could almost forget that Albus was close by.  
“You know,” said Flamel, pulling Gellert out of his reverie, “You are rather similar to an english wizard I met the year before last.” Gellert raised an eyebrow, not sure where the man was going with this odd comment. “Yes, you remind me very much of him. I think the two of you would get along famously, he’s about your age too, and brilliant.” With a sinking feeling Gellert wondered if Flamel was talking about who he thought he was, and sure enough, the alchemist continued with “Young Albus Dumbledore. A brilliant mind that one.”  
“We’ve met.” Gellert managed, thankfully able to keep the flicker of pain off his face as he tried to ignore the twisted sense of pride and yawning void of loss that the comment had created. “And yes, he is rather brilliant.” 

They agreed that Gellert would help work on a set of papers to be published in the summer of next year about the uses and differences of his eternal flame spell, and that he would be given free access to the Flamel Manor in southern France starting in the new year, and just as he was bidding the strange old alchemist goodbye he doubled up in pain, the bond’s warm glow replaced by the searing ache he had grown so used to before he had rescued Albus. He was gone. His vision swam in and out and distantly he could hear Flamel asking him what was wrong. In his pain his french fled and he found himself crying, begging for his mother in German though he knew there was no way she could hear him, no way she would come if she did. He was alone again. Aware that he was probably embarrassing Nicolas Flamel, Gellert sat up as straight as he could and took a shuddering breath in. He took the pain of the bond and cooled it, forged it into iron that laced his spine and finally raised his head up, meeting Flamel’s eye and apologising for his moment of distress with no tremor of pain in his voice. Flamel looked concerned, and frowned before speaking. “I didn’t want an apology Grindelwald, I asked if you were alright.”  
“I am sir.” Gellert said, then turned the conversation back to the schedule for their papers’ publication. Flamel seemed to realise that he would rather not discuss the fit he’d had, and graciously allowed the change of topic to go unmentioned, Gellert soon leaving after a moderately fond farewell. 

As soon as he was out of sight he apperated, trusting his magic to get him to wherever Albus had gone to. When he blinked away the darkness that hung between Here and There he saw Albus walking away, London swallowing him up as he turned a corner and Gellert lost sight of him once more. He could find Albus anywhere, didn’t need to see him to follow the pull of the bond, but as his heart began to beat with a mixture of anger and misery that was not his own he paused. Should he let Albus go? No. The instinctual answer thrummed through him, echoing down the bond as resentment swirled in his blood at the way he had been treated. He had saved Albus’ life but it meant nothing, the other man still scorning him at the first opportunity. Tears welled in his eyes and began to run down his face as he walked, unseeing, through the city that rang with Albus’ voice as another’s heartbeat echoed in his ears. He hadn’t noticed where he was going, hadn't realised where his feet had taken him until he was staring up at it. Tower Bridge loomed above him, wreathed in mist and burning in his vision, a monument to what he was realising all over again that he had lost. 

It had been cruel, he thought suddenly, to get his hopes up the way Albus had. He’d given insight to his transfiguration question, slept in Gellert’s bed and acted for all the world as if the experience was good for him, but it hadn’t been enough to let him see past their differences. It was cruel to give him such hope and then rip it away. He turned away from the bridge, turned away from the memories that were jagged enough to lacerate his mind when he tried to hold on to what he loved, and turned away from the hope that had flared in his chest that morning. When he apperated away it was almost silent, and as his chest burned with fresh pain he let one last sob escape him as he turned away from the past. 

He went back to Godrick’s Hollow first, dry eyed with the flavour of blood flooding his mouth, and made his way to the graveyard. Putting one hand on Arianna’s crisply white headstone he began to talk, apologising for what had happened and opening the book he had brought with him. He wasn’t sure what happened after death, no true answer lay within the reach of wizards yet, but if even a fraction of Arianna lingered by her grave he knew she would appreciate the goodbye he had decided on. “There was once a handsome, talented and rich young warlock, who observed that his friends grew foolish when they fell in love…” he began, and found himself smiling sadly as he read Arianna’s favourite tale out loud for her one last time. The first time he had smiled at her it had been with this book clutched in her hands, and when he thought of her it was always in his mind. As he finished the story he found himself choking up, but the tears froze before they could fall and when he had swallowed the regret he felt he lay the book gently against the headstone. His first copy of The Tales Of Beedle The Bard, preserved against the elements by a spell that Albus had modified that summer soon lay under a wreath of white flowers protected by the same charm. White roses for mourning, elderflower because Arianna had loved the smell and jasmine because the headstone in front of him marked the death of the summer they had shared as well as the girl lying cold beneath the ground. 

When he apperated to the second graveyard he had a different wreath of flowers. There were black roses and softly blue forget me nots, rosemary and thyme woven into the circlet to signify remembrance and the time that Gellert had been given. The grave looked just as it had in the vision he’d had so long ago, and Gellert smiled, finally letting go of the guilt he had carried for years. He summoned the painting that had been so lovingly created and had brought him so much pain when he’d first seen it. He lay the wreath on top of the half finished oil painting on the grave, underneath the simple inscription, turning away before he was gripped with a need to add something else. With his wand held carefully he added two simple lines to the headstone and smiled. That first truly horrific vision he’d ever had hadn’t been exactly right after all. The grave now read ‘Indus Black, of the ancient and most noble house of black, 1882 to 1897. A brilliant artist who loved with everything he had, he was beloved by all who knew him.’ Gellert walked through the wards surrounding the Black Family graveyard and back out into the pleasantly cool english night before he disappeared once more. 

He apperated to the London floo connection, wary of exhausting himself by breaking anymore international wards, and was soon brushing ashes from his coat on the German side of the fireplace. He blinked away the green afterimage of the flames and apperated to the kitchen of the house he had grown up in. His mother wasn’t there, but that had been his plan, and with a determined set to his jaw he summoned paper and began to write a letter. ‘Dearest Mother,’ he began, his handwriting as smooth and legible as he could manage as his side of everything she blamed him for came pouring out of him in a torrent. What had begun as an apology and and explanation morphed into a lengthy refrain about his plans for the future, and he finished the letter with a question. ‘Knowing now what you do, do you still condemn me for the terrible events of last summer? Whatever your answer might be, I remain your loving son, Gellert.’ He left it on the table where he knew it would be seen and apperated away with a sound close enough to silence that it faded away under the distant sounds of the muggle city that surrounded the house. 

Back in Paris, Gellert was cold, as cold as he had been after that summer when he had caused the lakeside problem, but with a clear conscience. He had laid all of the skeletons in his closet to rest, paved the way for healing his relationship with his mother and let go. Gellert walked through Paris and the air around him dropped ten degrees. Clouds rushed in and a freezing rainstorm struck the city, but Gellert merely turned up the collar of his coat and walked on, hair plastered to his skull with the cold rain. His eyes were red rimmed, his chest hurt with every breath, but he refused to let it show. He would not be forced to feel, he thought grimly, and as ice crept through his veins he realised that this was love, and he wanted no more part in it. He was Gellert Grindelwald, Seer and Arithmancer, and he would cry for no man. The blood pact felt warm in his top pocket but he ignored it. He no longer needed the warmth it could provide. He had finally let go of his past, and as he looked back on it pensively, rain lashing the pavement and driving the muggles indoors, Gellert realised with a jolt how much guilt he’d been living with. He loved Albus, and he always would, but he’d loved, hurt and dreamed before they met, and he could build the future that they both dreamed of on his own. 

When he got back to his room in the theatre he pointedly ignored the letter stamped with the hallows seal that had been left on the desk and tapped a pile of blank parchment, binding it into a notebook and adding a heavy leather cover embossed with his initials, the first G once more reversed for the sake of symmetry. On the first page he carefully wrote ‘The Aims Of The Revolution’ and below it ‘Property of Gellert Grindelwald’ then he turned the page and began to write.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Did you like it? Leave a comment. The revolution is here.


	5. "To The Revolution"

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Gellert tries somewhat successfully to move on, and takes his first steps down the road that will lead him to the history books. With a growing urge to do something about the problems he sees with the world, Gellert Grindelwald ushers in the twentieth century with a drunken speech to his friends and a firm belief that what he is doing serves the greater good.

As candlelight replaced the sun Gellert put aside the rapidly filling notebook detailing what he wanted for the future and penned a letter to Vinda. After sending it he wrote another letter, this one unaddressed as of yet, asking to reunite the core of the debate club he’d started at Durmstrang. A get together of sorts, and an invitation for drinks in Berlin at new year, and a rough outline of what he wanted to do with the future they shared. He tapped the finished letter and one became four. One by one he addressed them: Kaz, Imari, Hans, and Franz. As an afterthought he wrote another, slightly more intimate letter inviting his cousin Sasha along too, wanting to catch up with what his cousin had been up to generally as well as talk to him about the future.  
Putting the letters aside he neatly removed a few loose pages that had been resting inside the notebook, which he’d had to enlarge once he realised the magnitude of what he would have to do. Gellert smiled grimly, reviewing what he’d written earlier that day and amending the wording a little to improve the pacing of what he was hoping would become a speech. 

‘When did the history of wizarding society begin to fade away? When did we start putting stock into the skewed morals of the muggle world? The bans on ritual magic across Western Europe are nothing less than a modern witch hunt, only now we have turned on our own kind. Historically important branches of magic are being labelled dark, forcing stigma onto respectable modern wizards and witches for the innocent wish to partake in traditional magics. The disgrace of having to have this argument is enough to leave a bad taste in my mouth, immoral is the kindest thing I can call this latest slew of legislation, but I am in no mood to be kind. It is nothing less than the greatest threat we face in modern times.’ 

Who would hear it? He didn't know, but it had to be said. He exhaled a cloud of grey smoke and took another absent minded drag on his cigarette, relishing the acrid burn of the smoke as it filled as his lungs and tapping the ashes away on the edge of his desk before vanishing them as they fell. A grim smile in place, he willed the ink to dry and tucked the finished papers inside the cover of his notebook in the sudden dark of his candles’ flickering death, the flame snuffed out by a sudden gust of wind. With a snap of his fingers the room was lit once more, a silvery glow emanating from the ceiling that faded away, replaced by the more familiar glow of flames as the candle stubs grew back towards the ceiling and a spark dancing from his fingertips lit them once more. Opening the notebook to the essay he’d started earlier on the future of muggle war he picked up the pen and began to add to it, dredging up every horrible vision he could remember to try to paint a complete picture. After the essay had spilled over pages eight pages Gellert realised that he didn’t have all the information. He needed to look into what the muggles were up to a lot more closely. 

Thick fog swirled around the silent figure in a trench coat as he approached the muggle military base in the half light of dawn, a slight smile curling across his mouth as he opened locked door after locked door. Gellert was back on British soil, his knowledge of muggle history suggesting that the most dangerous weaponry would be found here, and he hadn’t been disappointed so far. The sketches he’d found in the muggle war office of ‘Landships’ matched the strange giant metal beetles he’d seen years ago in a vision, undeveloped and still in their infancy in terms of design, but it was undeniably the same machine and that was all the proof Gellert needed that what he had seen would come to pass. He stole the sketches, wishing that he had the time to find out who they belonged to and obliviate them, and carefully tucked them into his stolen military coat. He turned to leave and caught sight of something out of the corner of his eye, the printed essay pinned to the wall incongruous in a place like this. He walked over to it and began to read, a frown marring his features as he turned the page. He didn’t understand. The title of the work was ‘In Defence Of The Use Of Expanding Bullets’ and Gellert couldn’t understand why it had been written. Could the muggles really have had the sense to ban something this horrific? The paper spoke out vehemently against the 1899 Hague Declaration concerning the same type of weapon. Gellert frowned, unsure how the muggles could have come to the right conclusion and enforced a ban, given their track record of poor decision making. With a smile he cast a silent summoning charm and a copy of the Hague Declaration flew towards him, and he duplicated the angry response with a tap of his wand, putting the original back where he had found it. 

He apperated back to the international floo port and readied himself for the sudden pain that stretching the bond would bring. Part of him hoped that it would hurt Albus too, the separation of geography that he had forced between them, but Gellert was striving for indifference, apathy. It would hurt, stepping through the floo, but he clenched his jaw and let the green fire spin him away. When he reached the french side of the floo he didn’t crumple to the floor in pain, but it was a near thing. His mind went white, pain echoing through the bond as he felt his own burning hurt and Albus’, the two feeding on each other and growing, but he stood tall through the deluge, his teeth gritted to stop himself voicing a scream that was building in his throat. Forcing himself to smile, he walked away from the fireplace with haste and turned his feet homewards as his breathing levelled out at last. When he returned there was a glow of fire issuing from his floo connection box and he picked up the letters with a smile, seeing Vinda’s distinctive handwriting on the top of the pile. 

Gellert couldn’t stop himself smiling. All six of the friends he’d invited had agreed to come, both Kaz and Sasha writing back with ideas of their own on the subject of things that needed to change, and Gellert couldn’t wait. Vinda was the only one who was still in school, but he would never suggest a meeting without her so it would be roughly a month before he saw all of them. With a sigh he reached for a loose piece of paper and began to reply to Vinda’s long letter. He sent the letter off with a warm glow of fondness, asking after the teachers and gossip, but focusing on Vinda. With her absence grating on him daily he had been immeasurably glad to hear from her, and as he huddled into the comfortable muggle military coat that he’d decided to keep he wondered if she would approve of the style. He liked it, the ivory tone working well with his pale hair and skin in contrast to the black he had chosen underneath, and after a minute of contemplation he spelled an image of himself in the morning light onto a fresh sheaf of paper and added that to the envelope with ‘New coat, thoughts?’ written on the back of the picture. With a short laugh he sent the fat envelope off and had sat back on the bed, not tired in the slighted despite his sleepless night and wondering what he could do with his day, but the fire flared green once more and Gellert looked up sharply, surprised. He looked into the box and let out a bark of laughter. Vinda had returned the picture of the new coat with just three words written below his own message. ‘I want one’. With a shake of his head Gellert decided to relax for the rest of the day, opening up the case that contained his books and rotating the shelf until he found his copy of the Complete Works Of Shakespeare, eventually settling into the familiar beauty of Henry V. 

He looked up at a knock on the door, the cannon blasts of the battlefield of Agincourt ringing in his ears as the small room took shape around him, the fields running red with french blood melting away as the knock came again, louder this time. “Come in.” He said, and the door burst open.   
“Just as I thought.” The red faced man was flanked by two men dressed in black who Gellert thought might be meant to be intimidating. “Vinda’s sublet the room. I’ll have her guts for garters I will, the little whore.” Gellert saw red, heard the blood singing in his veins as the torrent of filth left the imbecile’s mouth.   
“Keep your profanities to yourself sir. Vinda is fortunate enough to have sources of income beyond your rather crass suggestion, and will be suffering no punishment for letting me stay.” He replied, voice completely level as rage swirled inside him.   
“Who’s going to do anything to stop me? You? I’ve dealt with more than one protective lover before, and she’s got it coming to her.” said the man, his lacklustre hair hanging in lank strings around his sweating face. Gellert didn't register thinking a spell but the two guards were suddenly slumped, bodies twitching as whatever his magic had done took effect. The man drew his own wand and Gellert smiled at him, his eyes glittering with hatred. 

“We’re just friends.” he said, and then sent his stinging expelliarmus, catching the other man’s wand with ease and following up with a curse that he’d learnt from a mute Mongolian in the fight pits that inverted every joint bone in a human body. Gellert belatedly set up a silencing ward and then returned to the man who had insulted Vinda. “I respect Vinda. She’s my closest friend, and you, you insult her, threaten her?” He continued, ignoring the grunts of pain and grinding sounds of bone as the man’s knees collapsed. It wasn’t enough. Running through the mental list of pain curses he knew, Gellert took in a shuddering breath and prepared to cast a circular spell for the first time. “Crucio.” He crooned the spell, his voice barely a whisper in the stale smell of sweat that the other man reeked of, but it was enough. He felt sparks dancing up and down his spine as his eyelids fluttered to the sounds of agony. A sickly sweet warmth flooded his mouth and left behind the taste of rot, the sunlight spilling through the windows taking on a strange dark hue as Gellert began to laugh without quite knowing why. He lost track of time, the thrill of the battle spell humming in his blood as he fell back against the bed, completely out of it, when a sudden silence echoed through the room. The man had stilled. The magic dispelled with a click of his fingers, Gellert blinked away the haze of the spell and took in the fruit of his labours. 

It had completely broken the man before him, the deep scratches on his arms where he’d tried to rip off his skin covered in a slick of drool, bile and tears. Gellert grimaced in disgust, blinking the strange dark light out of his vision as he licked his lips, trying to decide if the sickly sweet rotten flavour coating his mouth was a good one. He vanished the body, too shaken by the strange effect the spell had had on him to examine the corpse. Seeing the way the neural and circulatory systems had reacted under such extreme conditions could have been useful, might even have given insight into reversing the long term damage for living patients, but he was too drained by the spell to bother. He clapped his hands and vanished the traces of bodily fluid that the man had left behind, wondering if anyone would ask after the missing wizard. Gellert didn’t think he would be missed, after all the land lord obviously wasn’t magically talented enough to do something worthwhile with his life, and he had never heard the Veela mention anything about a family. Either way, he thought with a grin, it wouldn’t be his problem. There was no creeping cold edging its way through his veins now, nothing seemed wrong, which in and of itself should have been a cause for concern, but he was sprawled on the bed asleep before he could give his lack of guilt more than a moment’s thought. 

Gellert couldn’t tell if he was falling or flying in the vision. Lightning crackled through the air around him and he felt completely weightless, as if time had trapped him in a single moment, and then the dream changed and he was standing in front of a crowd. He drank in the applause, waited for it to abate and then, once the room was holding its breath, afraid to crack the eggshell silence, he spoke “I do not ask you listen to mere hateful vitriol. I do not ask you to listen out of fear for the future. I do not ask you to trust me. All I ask is that you hear my argument for the greater good, and listen. Your hearts shall answer as they will.” His voice echoed in the crowded hall, the high ceilings of minutely carved marble throwing his voice far and wide. The vision shifted once more, applause ringing in his ears as his dream changed. A brown eyed girl was sitting in the corner of a library. He blinked and she was replaced with Albus, then flickered into a boy with dark hair and a cold stare before returning to the strange girl. Her wildly curling brown hair was untamed, her eyes intently focused on the book in her lap as she turned the page before making a note of something on a piece of parchment. She faded into a faint impression before he woke, eye glowing. 

Days seemed to pass like smoke, intangible and orderless, as Gellert lost himself in research. He read political texts from ancient Greece and Rome, modern Italy and Russia, and absorbed the different ideologies of different eras into his own. Different power structures swirled behind his eyes as he gave up on finding a competently run magical society that would work on as large scale as was needed. Desperate, he turned to muggle texts, rereading Discourses On Livy by Machiavelli and taking a look at The Federalist Papers written the century before when The United States of America became an independent nation. He didn’t quite know what would work on a large scale for the integration of magical and muggle people, but was sure what would not work. Having separate governments comprised of all wizards and all muggles would be impossible to maintain due to conflicting ideals and the dangers of internal warfare, but neither would direct control by one governing body over two such different groups be possible. It was a strange paradox of a question but someone needed to solve it, and soon. 

Yule was fast approaching, the thought filling Gellert with a strange mixture of melancholy and excitement. He couldn’t wait to see his friends again, hoped that it would lead to change on a larger scale, but it would be the first Yule he’d spent without family. He pushed the strange sense of loss he felt away and smiled, catching sight of Soluna as he walked through the twisting corridors towards the street. “Hey,” he called after her, half thinking of inviting her to his gathering later before thinking about the common view of Veela as subhuman and reconsidering. She flinched and turned, hands transforming into claws wreathed in fire before she saw who had called out to her. She smiled at him and smoothed down her dress, her hands once more resembling those of a human as she asked what he’d been busy with this time. With a wry smile he began to explain. 

Vinda leapt at him, all but running down the gangplank of The Lady Durm a week before midwinter, throwing her arms wide and rushing into a hug. Gellert laughed and clicked his fingers, summoning her bags from the floor and apperating them both back to the room in the theatre that they had shared over the summer. Snow melted off Gellert’s boots as they were enveloped in the warmth of the place that Gellert had come to see as home over the last few months. “What have you done to the place?” said VInda, looking around at the cramped room.   
“What do you mean?” he asked, a smile on his face as Vinda clicked back into the place by his side that he needed her in.   
“What do I mean? Look at it.” Gellert gave the room a cursory glance and blinked in shock. He hadn’t realised quite how messy it had become. Papers were suspended in the air around the desk by runes carved into the surface, books were scattered across the floor and piled up in corners. There were letters on the bed and the notebook he had started on politics was propped open against the tall stack of his other notebooks that dominated the desk. He laughed ruefully and flicked his wand in the general vicinity of the centre of the room, his books leaping back into the smaller of the two trunks still propped against the wall under the window, the shelf within revolving at speed as his books shot back into their proper place.   
“Ok,” he admitted, “Perhaps I did let things slide a little.”   
“I’ll say.” said Vinda, her laughter clear in her voice as she tapped the sheets, her wand removing the ink stains that had been scattered across the now pristine white bedding. Gellert grinned and pointed out that it wasn’t likely to be infected, the incredulous look he received in answer drawing an outraged gasp from him.   
“Hey, I’m not afflicted by anything of that kind thank you.” he said, his expression offended for a moment longer before they both began to laugh. 

The following evening Gellert had gone out for food while Vinda settled back into being at home, but when he got back she met him at the door with uncharacteristic worry dancing in her eyes. “What?” he asked, and she said nothing, just offering a hug. “What is it Vinds? You’re scaring me here.” He asked again, his tone still lighthearted.   
“Albus’ letter.” The words sent a spike of hurt through him but he bit his tongue, studiously ignoring the fiery ache that hearing Albus’ name lit in his chest. “I’m sorry, I didn’t realise what it was until I’d opened it. You didn’t deserve—”   
“Please, don’t.” Cut in Gellert, his chest burning as he began to speak again. “He has consigned himself to my past, that was made abundantly clear in November. I haven't read it.”   
“I’m so so sorry Gel—”  
“It’s alright, we should be concentrating on changing things.” He said, then smiled as her eyes lit up. “The future is here Vinds, if we don’t act now we never will. It’s the dawn of a new century.”   
“I know.” She said, her voice light and surprised. “I’m just shocked you realised it too.”   
“Didn’t I once promise you Paris?” He said, magnanimously letting the dig slide. He hadn’t realised quite how much he’d missed her over the last few months, and as they sat down together at opposite ends of the bed, maps and papers spread out between them, they began to plan. 

Yule fast approached, Gellert sneaking out in the snow one night, heading deep underground into the stone warren of craftsman's guilds to get Vinda a beautiful necklace, stolen Galleons clutched tight in a hand deep inside one of his pockets. The gift was gold, fashioned to look like the outline of a flattened and withered rose, a delicate tracery of golden metalwork that unclasped and folded out into a rose in bloom. He had added a charm that played her favourite song when it was folded open, and added in several minute runes for protection and warmth before wrapping it up in a velvet cloth and putting it deep into one of the inner pockets of his coat for safety. Over the next few days he had sent out a few other gifts to old school acquaintances, picked out books for Nuuamaca and Soluna and sent a fine Whiskey to the Aztec mage who ran the blood pits in thanks for his shared secret before trying to find something for his mother. In the end he chose a simple watch and recoloured the soft leather strap into a highly detailed copy of the March sky under which she had been born, and had sent it through the floo with a short note asking how she was attached. 

He hadn’t meant to send a second gift to Godrick’s Hollow, his Great Aunt the only one there left that he cared for, but on the eve of yule his will crumpled. He carefully wrapped one of the mirrors that Indus had given him up and sent it through the floo. He hadn’t said who it was from, hadn't sent it with a note at all, but Albus would probably know. He tended to be annoying like that; very difficult to surprise and irritatingly good at guessing Gellert’s motives. He honestly hadn't intended to send him anything, but as Yule slipped into being and the sun began to rise he couldn’t quite muster up anything as strong as regret for his actions. He got up late, his preoccupied and wakeful witching hour leaving him more than a little tired, and he wiled away the day reading some of the books he had been given. His mother wrote back when the weak yule sun had half-decided on setting. Gellert had been about to leave the room, oak and poplar branches in his arms for the bonfire the veela had organised, and when he saw the floo box flare green he dropped the wood without a thought and summoned the note with a click of his shaking fingers. His mother had wished him happy yule, and the thought of it tasted like a victory on his lips, so he put the note to one side and headed out for the festivities. 

“How are you Gellert?” asked Imari as the last few hours of the old century slipped away, his easy smile a familiar sight as he arrived in the pub Gellert had suggested, the last one to get there.   
“It’s the end of the century my good sir,” he said, knocking back another shot of billywig and lime infused vodka and licking his lips as the strange giddiness of the magical drink too hold. “And the future is here to meet us. The year 1900. I can’t believe it really.”   
“None of that,” pointed out Sasha, his arm tossed over Gellert’s shoulders as he took a swig of his firewhiskey, “Answered the question the man asked you.”   
“Shut up Sasha, this is Imari. Be nice.” Cut in Vinda, and she had been about to add more when Kaz spoke up.   
“Imari Draftson? The one who got rid of Professor Horn?” asked Kaz, and Gellert turned on his friend, an expression of pure surprise on his face.   
“You killed a teacher?” he prompted, intrigued. Imari burst out laughing and shook his head, saying something about a typical lack of contextual awareness, and Gellert elbowed him fondly. Just as he had been about to reply, the bell of Notre Dame struck twelve and the first witching hour of a whole new century began. 

As the tolling died away Gellert got up onto the table, swallowing the aftertaste of his vodka and clearing his throat before he began. “Ladies, Gentlemen, those not deserving of either title,” he began, shooting a friendly glare at Imari who replied with a stinging hex that Gellert was just sober enough to duck. “It is the start of a new age in the world. The birth of a century. It is both of these things, but it could be so much more. With the seven of us here at this table, it could be the dawn of a revolution.” He paused to look around at them, not expecting the raised glasses of his friends to meet him in a toast.   
“To the revolution.” Said Franz, his pale skin flushed with the whiskey he had been drinking but his voice not yet slurring as he spoke and Gellert smiled. He should have known that they would accept his idea.  
“To the revolution.” echoed the others around the table.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Short chapter after a long wait, I know, but I've been up to my eyes in real life and it hurts like a bitch. I will probably have the next chapter up by this time next week because things have calmed down somewhat, but I'm afraid I can make no promises. 
> 
> Did you like it? Leave a comment.


	6. Clockwork Dreams

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Gellert writes his first propaganda pamphlet, makes some changes to his living situation in the wake of his Landlord's timely demise and discovers more than one horrifying new aspect of the muggle world. With the Flamel Manor to explore, and a seemingly endless list of things that the wizarding world needs to change it's stance on, Gellert is busy enough to finally begin to forget his heartache, but how long will that last?

Three weeks after Vinda had returned to school Gellert checked the last page of printed text and added it to one of the three small piles, tapping the typewriter to stop it’s bespelled motions. It had been Vinda who’d found the strange muggle contraption and realised it’s potential, stopping Gellert in his tracks as they walked through muggle Paris and pointing out the object with a gleam in her eye that in their school days would have suggested some devious prank. They had worked on charming the thing for the rest of Vinda’s holiday and finally succeeded the day before she had to go back to Durmstrang. Now Gellert was smiling, the last pamphlet printed in a legible, regular font that could with one ingenious spell become readable by thousands. Holding his wand over the english copy of the pamphlet on Veela rights that he had written with Soluna’s exasperated help, Gellert cleared his throat and spoke. “Duplicare centum.” The single english pamphlet on his desk replicated until another stack of bound papers almost a yard tall joined the other two dominating the floor space of the room. Gellert grinned, double checking the leaflet at the top of the pile to ensure that the spell had worked properly. Satisfied that the leaflets were identical, Gellert took one in each language off the top of their respective piles and levitated the rest of the three stacks into a charmed knapsack Vinda had got him for Yule which had extension and protection charms woven into the fabric. He apperated to Notre Dame, the french international floo port, already considering the different places he could put the pamphlets before stopping short to reconsider his appearance. He was publishing this idea anonymously, sure that he was not politically powerful enough for his name to add any weight to his argument and slightly worried that with the growing national animosity of Germany and England his identity would hinder support in Britain if it were known. He would need a disguise. 

In a heartbeat he was back in his room, putting his distinctive warded coat back on the bed and pulling out the trench coat he had stolen in London. He pulled on an unassuming navy waistcoat and tapped his grey trousers, changing their colour to match before leaving by way of the stage door. As he approached the international floo network he realised that he might very well be recognised in the town he had spent so much of his childhood wondering, even with a disguise, and ducked into an alley to apply some glamours. He concentrated hard and muttered “kryć.” The polish word for mask concentrating his magical efforts. His eyes transformed into a vivid grass green, his hair darkening towards brown falling in straight strands that grew past his shoulders down to his mid back until he was hardly recognisable. As a final touch he rounded out the appearance of his jaw, making the harsh angles of his thin face seem softer. Stepping through the fire to Munich stretched the bond that tethered him to Albus, but he could almost ignore the throbbing pain, and distracted himself somewhat successfully with the walk to the other end of Vertikale Straße. 

After he had put twenty of his German pamphlets around Munich Magical Library he ducked into the One Of Three’s shop, glamours peeled away by the alien magic of the place as he wondered if anything had changed, having to contain a gasp at what he saw. There was a little girl in the shop, maybe six or seven. Her long dirty blond hair looked unkempt and the style of dress she wore was like nothing Gellert had ever seen, except in some of his less coherent visions. She whirled around at the sound of the bell, her unearthly pale blue eyes marking her out as a seer of some sort, and Gellert softened his guarded expression into a friendly smile. “Grüße kleiner Seher” He tried the German greeting first, and was met with a blank look. French got a glimmer of recognition but still didn’t garner a reply, so he tried English. The language curled headily on his tongue, a velvety reminder of the summer that he was doing his best to leave behind, but the little girl beamed, finally able to understand, and Gellert felt some of his pain at the reminder fade away.  
“Hello. When are you from?” She said, her gaze drifting to a point above his left ear as her words sent a shiver through Gellert.  
“1900.” he said, deeply troubled. This seerling was strange, less like a normal child than he had ever been, and somehow ethereal. Her clothes suggested that she was from his future, and he let a small part of himself feel a stab of glee at seeing this strong proof of his theory that the shop existed outside of time, even as he wondered what had caused this girl’s seer sight to manifest so oddly.  
“Did you know that you’re rather badly infested with Gulping Plimpys? I’m sorry for your loss.” she said, then smiled sunnily at him. Gellert backed away, strangely unnerved by the mad child, but as her face crumpled and she began to look like she might cry he found himself apologising.  
“I’m sorry. I’m not used to the language of your time, it is strange to me.” He said, his voice soothing, “You have my thanks, I will admit that of late I have found myself in need of consolation but I do not seek it here.” As he spoke the One Of Three appeared, a look of fearful shock twisting it’s face into something grotesque.  
“Out. Begone Lord, for this child is of a time long after yours when the light lives under a different shadow, and you shall not interfere.” It’s voice was a low crackle of anger, and Gellert found himself flung from the shop by some invisible force. It felt nothing like any magic that he had experienced before. Gellert tasted something like ozone in the back of his throat, getting up off the pavement as gracefully as could be managed and, fixing a smile onto his face, he reapplied his glamour charms and continued on his way. 

He apperated to Berlin and put more of the pamphlets in both the law and magical creatures sections of the magical library and the patent office before turning back towards France. Though he hadn’t spent as much time there, he added a few to the french magical library before flooing to London. His lashes fluttered as pleasure hummed through the bond, the warmth of an intangible embrace welcoming him into England, but Gellert didn’t let himself relish the feeling for long before heading into Diagon Alley. His first stop was Flourish And Blots, where he left three on the counter where they would be conspicuous and another ten of his booklets in both the relevant sections before heading back out into the street. After leaving another pile in the Third Of Three’s bookshop in Knockturn Alley he had been about to turn back towards the floo station when he thought of The Raven’s Nest. It would be the perfect place to leave a few of these pamphlets, an international academic hub would attract just the right kind of attention for the Veela’s cause. Gellert turned on his heel and headed towards The Raven’s Nest, resolutely squashing the small hope that Albus would be there and checking the strength of his glamours as he approached his favourite corner of magical Britain. He strode into the main room of the nest and tapped a blackboard, thinking a swift cleaning spell and waiting a split second for the chalk smudges to disappear before writing his question across the top of the board: ‘Veela, Beast Or Being? Is the ministry’s current classification justified?’ It was, of course, written in nothing like his usual handwriting. He summoned a small desk from across the room and stacked the last of his english leaflets there before putting down a few french pamphlets as well. 

Letting his glamour shift as he tapped his foot impatiently on the cobbles just out of sight of The Raven Nest’s front door, he smiled, his disguise falling away as he re-coloured his clothes to suit his real appearance, blue trousers fading into a dull red and the waistcoat disappearing as he created embroidery on the shirt that depicted roses in the same colour thread as his trousers. He’d been ready to leave London when in a flash of inspiration he had decided to pose another question to the denizens of The Raven’s Nest, but he felt that the two ideas shouldn’t be connected in anyone’s mind. One after all, was a basic argument that sentient magical beings should have rights, and the other was a much more serious question, and a monumentally divisive issue in the UK. Walking to a board not too near to the other one, but not far enough away to be conspicuous, Gellert took up his wand and levitated some more chalk. ‘The “Evils” Of Ritual Magic, Should It Have Been Banned?’ This time the script was his, his slanted handwriting obvious if someone had seen enough of it. Satisfied smile in place, Gellert left hurriedly and made his way back to Paris, the bond’s familiar shooting pain his only welcome back to the city he was living in. He tried to talk himself into believing that he’d used his own handwriting because it was so different from the other style he’d used, and not to let Albus know he’d been there, but it was a vain attempt doomed to failure. In the end it was futile, but he didn’t let himself wallow in anything, instead focussing on distributing the rest of his Pamphlets. 

Back in his room he wrote a short letter to Sasha asking him to put a few of the leaflets around in both of Moscow’s magical libraries and his workplace before writing a Russian pamphlet on the same topic as the ones he’d just left across magical London. His swiftly conjured Russian letter keys on the typewriter served their purpose before he vanished them, not wanting to waste his magic on making them permanent and secure in the knowledge that they would be back at his fingertips whenever he would require them in future. He emphasised the financial and military benefits that could come of moving Veela to Being Class, knowing that the militant Russian Ministry of Magic would respond best tho those arguments, so he would have less of an uphill battle to fight in regards to Veela rights with that slant to the writing. After duplicating his Russian Pamphlet and tying the stack of them together, Gellert pinned his note to the top and flooed the whole stack of papers through to Sasha’s new place in the outskirts of Moscow. Taking the last of the German leaflets out of the knapsack, he bundled them up and added a note to Vinda asking her to put them in Durmstrang’s library, as well as the usual questions about how her last spring term at school had started and what the latest gossip was. Gellert changed into a soft grey jumper Bathilda had knitted him for yule and casual trousers and finally let himself relax. He slumped back into bed and picked up his latest copy of Magick Moste Evil with a smile on his face. He’d found a copy of it in it’s original Armenian that predated the twelfth and fourteenth century witch burnings and had bought it as a late Yule present for himself a few days before, using his best translation charms to create a perfect german copy from the original. Turning to the third chapter he settled into reading about the skin and spells derived from it’s structural properties, feeling a soft glow of accomplishment at the thought of what he’d managed that morning. 

Just as chapter three had been getting interesting the flames in Gellert’s floo box leapt upwards in a roar of green, the letter shooting across the room to him at a flick of his fingers. He broke the Flamel seal and scanned down the letter, his excitement rising as he realised that this was a proper invitation at last. He would get to work in a professional alchemy lab. He could hardly wait for the next day to arrive, his mind jumping from idea to idea as a gleeful smile stretched across his face. Too fired up to settle back into reading up on the different methods one could use to flay a muggle, Gellert decided to continue with his latest project. 

After their landlord’s timely demise Soluna had pointed out that Gellert ought to have a kitchen and another bedroom, which he’d been working on magically installing in free moments ever since. The north wall of Vinda’s room now had a door close to the window which led into the room next door, now a kitchen of sorts that sat between the room Gellert was living in currently and the one he would occupy in a few month time when Vinda moved back to Paris permanently. He’d vanished a wall so that the kitchen was twice the size of either bedroom, and had carefully added to and twisted around the plumbing of the building until he had hot and cold water available at a moment’s notice a few days before. Standing in the room he'd half finished creating, Gellert summoned a kitchen range from a nearby muggle shop and moved Vinda’s coffee pot to the new stove from where it had been precariously sitting atop a pile of books in the room they had shared. It was the work of a moment to acquire a kettle from the muggle house down the street for the tea that Vinda still liked to pretend she didn’t enjoy, and pots and pans soon followed in the same manner. With the kitchen more or less finished, Gellert enlarged a small money box he no longer needed and charmed the interior to stay cool to keep food fresh in and moved through to the next room with a smile. Turning in the doorway, he levitated the box over to the side of the room with a flick of his wand and passed through to the bedroom he would soon occupy. 

Smearing his blood across the south wall as he had done so many years ago at Durmstrang, Gellert focused on coaxing the wood back into life and watched as a set of shelves grew out of the panelling. With a smile he summoned his clothes from the room that was to become Vinda’s once more and began rearranging things. Summoning a couple of floorboards from somewhere else in the dilapidated building, Gellert cut his hand once more and watched as the wood warped and twisted into the shape of a desk that grew until it fitted its self perfectly to the width of the room directly below the window, then again as the second board became a bed frame and the third became a wardrobe. A moment more’s concentration produced draws in the desk and wardrobe, as well as a pole to hang his shirts on, but Gellert found himself exhausted by the heavy use of blood magic. He unpacked his books from the smaller of the two trunks and snapped his fingers, expecting them to leap up to the shelves at his bidding, and realised when they did nothing that he was too magically drained. Feeling a little ridiculous, Gellert picked up his wand and paused for a moment, trying to remember the actual incantation for the levitation spell. After a worryingly long time the incantation came back to him and he muttered a resentful “Wingardium Leviosa.” The books floated up to their respective places on his new shelves and Gellert smiled tiredly. The room was only half finished but Gellert was famished, the blood magic he had done leaving him feeling oddly hollow, as if he hadn't eaten in a week, and he knew better than to push himself further that he should when so little was at stake. 

That night Gellert slept soundly in Vinda’s room, his visions strange. He saw a clockwork child drawing as cogs and levers whirred within it’s metal frame, the lines and circles it traced across the page forming an intricate and senseless pattern that he somehow understood. It was his story. The centre of the page was a celtic knot, the threads that formed it reaching out to different points around the spiral that was time, arching over jagged lines and strange sigils that invoked power in Gellert as he looked on, the machine drawing his life into being before his eyes. As he watched the cogs began to grind to a halt, the mechanical child slumping forward over the scroll pinned before it and revealing a heart shaped hole in the sheet of metal that formed it’s back. Panicked, Gellert tapped the machine with the first hallow, the red haze of the elder wand’s repairing spell doing nothing to change the clockwork’s broken state. Laughter rang around the small room that sent spikes of longing through him. He looked up and his vision was filled with Albus’ smile, copper hair fanning out to frame his face from beneath a blue hat as he picked his way through cogs and pulleys that sprung up through the floor, the guts of some larger clock that they were standing inside. There was a key dangling from Albus’ fingers on a long red ribbon, the end of it shaped in the likeness of a heart. Gellert lunged forwards, grasping for the key that would give him the rest of his life, but Albus met his eye and smiled, allowing it slip through his fingers and down, down through the warmly glowing golden light of the room they were in and between the bars and gears that made up the floor, into the darkness beyond the clock. As the key disappeared through the crack, crimson ribbon trailing after it, the whole structure began to shake. The clockwork child fell to pieces, rusting before his very eyes as the cogs that made up the room shook apart and fell away in splinters into the abyss. The floor that Gellert was standing on crumbled and he fell through the glittering remains of the clock that had protected them and down into the cold. 

He woke with tears streaming down his face, frozen fingers clumsy as he wiped away the display of his weakness angrily. He refused to feel like this. He had made himself a promise that he would focus on the future, but he found himself bourn back to his lover every night. Albus haunted his dreams. Part of him wanted to believe that it meant that their paths had not yet diverged forever, but he ruthlessly smothered that particular argument as best he could. He had to move on. Knowing he wouldn't be able to sleep again, Gellert carefully added two more sets of shelves with another smear of his blood above the desk on either side of the window. He paced back and forth, wondering with each sharp turn how he could distract himself from the gnawing pain that his dream had brought back to the surface. Looking around at the almost complete room he had made for himself, he could see what was missing easily. He needed a mattress for the bed, and some sort of storage for all the loose sheets of parchment cluttering Vinda’s desk in the other room. His notebooks were moved to the shelves above the right hand side of the desk, the sheets of parchment were soon sorted into topics and put into different draws, and his completed pamphlets slid onto the first of the empty shelves to the left of the window without hindrance, but he still itched with the need to do something. 

He needed a mattress. Duplication spells only lasted for so long, thought Gellert, finally finding something to fully occupy his mind. He thought that he could probably apply his fourth dimension strengthening method to the spell, which would render the duplicate permanent and reduce the power needed for the enchantment and it would take some wrangling. Happily pulling a fresh sheet of parchment towards him, Gellert flicked through his old fourth dimension arithmancy notebook to refresh himself on the theory and began. 

Lying back against his newly bespelled pillows as the sky was streaked a blood red by the encroaching dawn, Gellert couldn’t help but mull over the idea of a general set of rules that could govern improving a spell by translating it to the fourth dimension. One of the key ideas in muggle mathematics was abstraction, the idea that any method used in mathematics could be given in general terms, and applied readily to any problem of the same nature. He might be able to do it, but not in the time he had before he was expected at Flamel Manor so he regretfully put the thought to one side. He looked around somewhat desperately for something to do, and after a silent pause that grated on his nerves carefully moved the sleeping Cixi from her perch in Vinda’s room to his shoulder. Gellert shook his head fondly, carried her latest ornate perch through to his new room where he fixed it to the side of the wardrobe with a permanent sticking charm and gently ruffled her glossy white feathers so as not to wake her, wondering all the while how Vinda’s familiar Lamellar was doing with no-one to bring him freshly caught rats. He nudged Cixi back onto her perch and made soothing noises in the back of his throat with a smile on his face, not wanting to disturb her rest. That task done, he looked around again for something to do and eventually settled on busying himself with making sure he packed what he would need into a satchel. Gellert rifled through his alchemy notes, wondering if any of it would be useful while he was in a world class lab. In the end he decided to take his notes on the creation process of the ‘Ignem Aeternum’ and the notebook dedicated to some of the more advanced alchemy he’d come across as well as his list of questions to ask the immortal couple. 

Once he had re-checked if he had anything for the third time Gellert admitted to himself that he was being ridiculous, and after a very early breakfast he managed to calm himself down enough to focus on what he had left to read of chapter three of Magick Moste Evil. The morning melted into being and before he knew it Gellert was scrambling to get to the nearest floo point to arrive on time. Grinning, Gellert unfolded the piece of paper he had been sent containing the key to the confounding system of wards around Flamel Manor and began the chant. A smile playing around his eyes, he couldn’t help but wonder if each word would unlock part of the wards, and if without each part it would be useless. That’s how he would have designed a warding system this complicated, but maybe there was something else to it. Making a mental note to develop a warning system that would work on those principles for the flat, he spoke the final word and threw a handful of floo powder into the fireplace of the box office on the ground floor of the theatre. As it flared green he stepped into the flames and was whisked away towards a world renowned alchemist and his laboratory with a smile that couldn’t be stolen by anything. Even the pain that rippled through him as he stepped out of the fireplace on the other side seemed inconsequential in comparison to his jittery excitement. 

Nicolas Flamel beamed at Gellert as he looked around in awe, taking in the pale walls inlaid with golden alchemical symbols which he assumed were protective. “This place is incredible.”  
“Yes,” replied the old wizard, his voice still strong despite the wizened appearance of his frame, “It is. If you would follow me young Grindelwald, I’ll show you around the manor.” Gellert followed the alchemist through an arched door into the corridor beyond and slowed his pace, not wanting to seem unappreciative of anything he was shown. Schooling his expression into one of well mannered awe, Gellert had been about to ask where the labs were situated when a woman came around the corner at a run. Her windswept silver hair lent her a slightly frazzled look despite the neatly pressed white alchemist’s over-robe she wore, her expression agitated as she rushed towards them.  
“There’s some kind of breach in the wards Nick, I can’t close—” she panted, then stopped short at the sight of Gellert. “Oh,” she continued, smoothing down her robes and smiling at him kindly, “You must be the famous Grindelwald.”  
“I can hardly claim fame in your illustrious presence.” He replied, his expression kind as his mind silently whirred, busy wondering what could possibly cause a breach in these wards.  
“You created eternal fire did you not? We’re alchemists my dear, that’s quite famous enough for us.” said the woman with a smile, though her eyes continued to flicker back and forth, panicked.  
“What’s this about the wards dear?” asked Nicolas with a worried half-frown.  
“It’s as if there’s a tunnel. A magical tie of some sort that is stronger than our wards. I didn’t think it was possible.” replied the pale woman. 

Gellert felt a horrible sinking sensation he took in the full meaning of her words. The breach in the wards was him. His soul bond to Albus must allow them to pass through ward systems if the other person was inside them. It was fascinating, and Gellert itched to examine the magic behind this latest strange manifestation of the bond’s power, but he had to say something to the Flamel couple before they began to suspect him. His mind raced, his pulse thundering in his ears as he wondered what he could possibly say to explain himself. It wouldn't do to feign ignorance; they would find out before long and it would lose him any trust he might have built with the prestigious couple. Taking a deep steadying breath, Gellert ran through a few possible platitudes that he could start with in his mind and discarded them, not wanting to seem too grovelling or too proud. In the end, he decided on simply giving them the truth, or a part of it. “It’s a soul bond. That’s what is keeping the wards open.”  
“What on earth—” began Nicolas, but Gellert cut him off before he had the chance to work himself up over the whole affair.  
“Don’t worry. I’m connected to a fellow wizard by some highly complicated ritual magic we invented together, but it doesn’t matter.”  
“Doesn’t matter?” spluttered Nicolas’ wife, an expression of outrage on her face, and Gellert nodded, smiling sadly.  
“He won’t come through the wards. I’m pretty sure he isn’t aware that he would be able to even if he did want to see me.” he replied. Something in his voice must have betrayed how hurt he was because the pale woman offered him a small smile and summoned a tray of what looked like biscuits. Nicolas led the way into a comfortable looking sitting room, gesturing for Gellert to take a seat with a frown on his face. Gellert smiled and had been about to begin speaking once again when he was interrupted.  
“Coffee?” asked the pale old man, and Gellert nodded quickly, his movements jerky and unsure. 

Hands wrapped around the warm china of the coffee cup, Gellert dunked one of the offered biscuits into his coffee and took a bite, realising a second too late what he had been dosed with as an eerily familiar flavour exploded on his tongue. “You gave me veritaserum?” he asked, an expression of forced neutrality taking all of his strength to maintain even as his offended tone revealed how he actually felt.  
“Security is a serious matter when the only known philosopher’s stone and all of the notes on how to create one are at stake young man.”  
“I never said a thing that wasn’t true.” he said, his voice pulled from him against his will.  
“What is this bond? How can it be more powerful than the Fidelius Charm?” The question’s serrated hooks dug into Gellert’s magic, the veritaserum compelling him into an answer, but he couldn’t bear to tell a stranger everything. He took a deep breath and scowled before swallowing.  
“We pushed the boundaries of soul magic, tried something completely new and tied ourselves together, magic and soul.” There. That had to be enough to satisfy this vile potion. He shuddered and hunched in on himself, managing to throw off the compulsion to pour out the whole process that had created the bond. “I would greatly appreciate it if now that you know your security has not been breached in any way that will affect you you would administer the antidote.” he said, each word spat through gritted teeth.  
“You’re hiding something Grindelwald.”  
“Yes.” he managed, though it was taking everything he had not to curse the alchemist, world class laboratory or not. “But my secrets are my own. They will not endanger you, do not concern you and therefore will not be revealed to you.”  
“I think that I’d better ask you a few more—” began Nicolas, but he was interrupter by his wife.  
“Very well child. Keep your silence.” 

If the house had impressed him, the lab blew Gellert away. Every surface gleamed spotlessly, the underground room lit with a strange white glow emanating from the ceiling. Next to the door a strange contraption that held thirty-six obsidian crucible’s which were held in three concentric circles that oscillated at different speeds was sitting next to a stack of parchments that were being written on by a charmed quill. On a workbench nearby an icosahedron with a clock embedded on each of its twenty faces ticked away, each clock showing a different time, the rattle of miniature cogs within the clockwork echoing through Gellert’s mind. He blinked away the mental image of the clockwork child from his dreams and looked around for something else to focus on. Across the room other strange machines whirred and emitted smoke, glowed and let out odd sounds, and Gellert looked around in wonder, the anger that surged within him at being tricked into drinking veritaserum fading as he took in by far the most advanced alchemy laboratory he had ever seen. Nicolas had been looking suitably chastised for drugging Gellert’s coffee, his wife Perenelle having talked him into offering an antidote as quickly as possible, but the look of open admiration with which Gellert was surveying his laboratory seemed to lighten his mood. Before they moved further into the cavernous room, Gellert was given a stiffly starched white over-robe to wear in the lab that he could tell had been treated with a combination of protective potions. Tapping the robe to button himself in with the many round bone coloured buttons that fell in a straight line down the left hand side of , Gellert couldn’t help but feel as if he looked a little like a ghost, his blond hair and pale face washed out more than usual by the white robe until his reflection looked as if it were hardly there at all, and shivered at the thought.

After making himself at home in the lab and showing Nicolas Flamel his notes on Eternal flame, as well as performing the spell several times while standing inside a strange glass box that showed Nicolas how the charm affected his magic, Gellert was leaning against the clean metallic surface of a workbench and reading over what Nicolas’ strange glass box had told him. Looking up, a question dancing in his eyes at one of the comments written in the wide margin to the right of the main body of text, Gellert raised an eyebrow, wondering what his spell had to do with a question that he’d been idly wondering about for months. “What’s the difference between pyromancy and fire based alchemy?” Nicolas looked up sharply and fixed him with a strangely intense look.  
“Pyromancy is dark magic. Alchemy is not.” he said shortly, then turned back to his own copy of the glass box’s readings. So the difference was political. Interesting. Gellert had used all of the fire magic he knew to create the eternal flame spell, as limiting himself to one discipline would have been foolish, but he couldn’t help but wonder how the Flamels would react when they discovered the ‘dark’ components of the magic that had helped him create his spell. 

Hours slipped past and Gellert only narrowly escaped a second opportunity for the Flamels to dose him with another unknown substance, saying that he was expected back in Paris for supper and had to regretfully decline their invitation. As a result he spun safely back in the old theatre box office’s fire place without having been put under the influence of any untoward potions and made his way upstairs to his rooms peacefully enough and relaxed with a book for the rest of the evening, relishing his solitude. 

As February dawned the following week Gellert shook off the cobwebs of sleep to the sound of Cixi’s screeching and rubbed the sleep out of his eyes as he felt for his wand on the bedside table. With a wave of his wand and a thought the bacon rinds still lying on the draining board morphed into a fat pigeon which fluttered towards the window before being struck down by the pale blur that was Cixi during a hunt. Gellert smiled as he felt an echo of the primal glee Cixi felt tearing into the soft flesh of the plump pigeon he had transfigured, a thud and the sharp cry of her prey heralding the end of her graceful flight through the doorway; though a mere shadow of how beautiful she was under an open sky it still left Gellert a little breathless with the joy of fast flight. He ambled after her, pulled the bowl of strawberries out of his charmed cold-box and tucked in, the tart flavour of the fruit clashing with the aftertaste of meat lying on the edge of his senses. 

Pulling the notes on his first healing spell towards him, fingers sticky with the residue of strawberry juice before he realised his mistake and cleaned them with a thought, Gellert frowned. He had refused to even look at the additions to his ideas Albus had made that horrible morning after Gellert had saved his life for months, then completed the study in transforming a curse into its cure in a fit of nostalgia the week before, but it was only now that he was beginning to appreciate what they had achieved. The transfiguration curse had been particularly challenging to break down into it’s arithmantic components, the final stage requiring Albus’ brilliant mind to slot the last puzzle piece into place, and as much as he resented it Gellert still felt his traitorous heart speed up at the memory of Albus’ eyes alight with a new idea because of him. Forcing his smile away, Gellert reviewed the healing charm he’d crafted based on their joint efforts and decided to take it for a test drive. 

Sending a quick note to the Flamels that he wouldn’t be coming to the lab that day, Gellert made his way to La Maison Des Livres Magiques, the french magical library, to look for books on french history, wanting to read up on what Nicolas Flamel had been up to for the past six hundred years. He whiled away the afternoon tricking muggles into giving him fresh produce and reading up on the way french magical history had been impacted by catholicism throughout the ages, but by the time twilight had arrived he was practically vibrating with anticipation at testing out his new charm. Needing a muggle to experiment on, he headed up onto the lawless arches that played foundation to the bustling railway track running around the city centre. The foul underbelly of the 'Petite Ceinture’ was the well known home of vagrants and twisted degenerates that no one would miss. As a result Gellert felt fairly safe in the assumption that his use of magic would go undetected, and it was only that tantalising freedom to test his spells however he wanted to that drew him towards the cesspit of muggle poverty at all. Boots charmed against the omnipresent layer of filth that discoloured the cracked bricks arching high overhead and paved the splintering boards that lay in shifting stasis in the bog of churned mud with black smears, he strode confidently into the wasteland. 

He watched the comings and goings of the muggle filth for around an hour, a glamour disguising his appearance as muddily unkempt at best, before he spotted his target. A thin muggle man wearing a dress with high cheekbones and dead eyes, bruises blooming across his left cheek and a deep cut above his right eyebrow that still had rough gravel embedded in the oozing mess of blood and flesh, cracked lips that were rouged with blood and what looked like cracked ribs through the rips in his shirt. Gellert moved towards him with a purpose and greeted the man with a guarded smile. “I’m not in business today.” said the man, his tone flat as he gestured to the mess of his face. Gellert’s smile widened and he looked deep into the muggle’s eyes, compelling him into follow the instructions Gellert gave.  
“Follow.” he said, not wanting to deal with the confusion which would be sure to slow him down if he gave a more specific order. 

Back in his room he released his hold on the man’s mind and threw up a silencing ward. “Where the fuck? How?” began the muggle, panicked for a moment before a scowl tried to make an appearance on his face. “I told you I’m not working today. You could pay me triple and I still wouldn’t let you have me.” He said, wincing at the pain generated from moving his face. Gellert laughed, unable to conceal his amusement at the foolish muggle, who was thinking along the wrong lines entirely.  
“Don’t worry. I just need a muggle test subject. It will all be fine if the healing charm I’m trying works.” replied Gellert, binding the muggle’s arms before he cast several healing charms. The muggle’s expression went from one of pain fuelled anger to one of awe as the healing magic took hold and his surface wounds melted away, fading one by one until only the cracked ribs remained. Another muttered spell healed his bones and unmade the mottled bruising until only a memory of pain remained. “Thank you, thank you. H-how did you do that?” stuttered the muggle, and Gellert frowned before throwing caution to the winds. He would be obliviating the man soon enough, he might as well know the truth temporarily.  
“I used magic.” he said shortly, before pointing his wand at the muggle once more. “Don’t take this personally, but I need to curse you. I’m testing a counter spell, so it shouldn’t be permanent.” He said, and the muggle looked at him, dazed by the strange truth, and Gellert couldn’t help but pity the poor creature. One day they would all know, he vowed to himself as he thought the transfiguration curse’s incantation and watched as the spell took hold. The muggle contorted in pain as tendons that had been turned to razor wire lacerated his muscles and blood bloomed into dark bruises under his pale skin as his heart fragmented into three useless lumps of meat. Taking a moment to breathe before he tried his counter curse, Gellert looked at the man more closely. His eyes were ringed in kohl and his lips painted with blood in a mockery of rouge, but it was his oddly disjointed movements that had attracted Gellert’s attention initially. What was it about this strange muggle that seemed so off? 

Shaking himself, Gellert performed his counter curse and beamed as the razor wire relaxed back into organic matter and the deep internal cuts healed away to nothing, the muggle’s heart re-forming and lurching back into a steady beat as he slowly became aware. “That was horrible. What tipped you off about me?” he said, voice rough.  
“What are you talking about?” asked Gellert, bemused at the strange workings of the muggle mind.  
“You know what I am, that’s why you tried out your torture witchcraft on me, isn’t it?”  
“What you are?” echoed Gellert, the picture of confusion.  
“Hermaphrodite. You know, Fake woman.”  
“Sorry?”  
“I’m not, not right.” began the muggle, and Gellert smiled, hoping to coax more of an explanation forth. “I’m not a man. Rather I’d very much like to not be one I mean. I was meant to be a woman. It’s aberrant.” The man — no, woman — sighed and curled in on herself a little. Gellert sat down, quite unsure how to continue. He hadn’t really meant to have a conversation with his test subject, but she had proved too intriguing to silence immediately, and he was curious about this novel phenomenon of a muggle that was born the wrong sex.  
“I really am sorry about the curse, but on the bright side my healing charm worked very well so there’s no real harm done.” he said, a long silence broken by his words. The muggle let out a vaguely horrified laugh, then shot him an almost considering look.  
“Could you, that is to say, is it possible to transform one thing into another with your sorcery?” she asked, and Gellert nodded. “Can you change me? So that I have the right body?” It was a very good question, the desperate hope in his test subject’s voice easily pushed to one side, unimportant as his mind raced with the possibilities of theoretical transfiguration. 

Pulling down his sixth and seventh year transfiguration textbooks from their shelf, Gellert flicked to the relevant pages and scanned them both to make sure he hadn’t forgotten any key elements of the spells that would be required. Spinning on his heel, Gellert pointed his wand at the woman once more and began the complicated process of weaving the total bodily transfiguration that would give her the right body. As his magic pulled at the fabric of her body and began to unravel and re-weave it into a female form he wondered if any of the magical people he knew had undergone this spell. He hadn’t really conceptualised what these spells would be used for before now, but he could see that as the woman looked down at herself as she should be for the first time with an expression of almost religious awe that it was a spell that was obviously of the upmost importance to those it affected. He hadn’t known if it would work on a muggle but it’s obvious success just fuelled his certainty that the statute of secrecy needed to be discarded. How could the magical world sit by complacently as muggles suffered, trapped in bodies they hated that could be fixed with the wave of a wand and some relatively simple transfiguration everyone learnt at school? Gellert suddenly found himself being squeezed tightly by the muggle, her eyes shining. Hugged by a muggle, he certainly hadn’t foreseen this, but he was grudgingly happy to help a woman so desperately wronged by the world she lived in, and after all he had checked that his healing spell worked, which could only be described as a great success. 

Gellert carefully deposited Eli on a bench in the Gare du Nord with a roll of muggle bank notes he had conjured tucked into her jacket pocket, her stunned form unwieldy as he got up the nerve to change a memory. “Obliviate.” he said, carefully erasing his name and address from her mind and any stray details of magic that he couldn’t get away with leaving there. He removed the trial of the healing spell, leaving her memory of both his appearance and the sex change spells intact. After adding a complicated little seal on the information that stopped her from divulging it by any means but kept her remaining memories intact, Gellert smiled, and summoning all the courage he could, he managed to fabricate the memory of a single extra word as a precautionary misdirection. ‘Lazarus.’ Hebrew for ‘God has helped.’ It was an inside joke on Gellert’s part, he wasn’t quite egotistical enough to think himself a god, but he had changed Eli’s life and given her a new world. Arguably the fictitious christian god had done the same for the converted, so he indulged himself with the word choice and tried his best not to get distracted from his spellwork. With a smile he cast a warming charm over Eli’s sleeping form that would fade as she woke, took one last look at the clothes he’d transfigured, running a critical eye over them to catch any obvious imperfections and finding none, and walked calmly away. “Rennervate.” he said, his words curling with power as his footsteps echoed through the deserted streets, and across the city a woman woke in a train station where the shadows pooled thick under every seat and column in the half light of dawn, remembering the unearthly power of the magic that had fixed her. 

“Two Rising Stars Of Arithmancy and Transfiguration Break Into Healing In A Bold Co-Created Spell That Counter’s The Dark Transfiguration based Curse Vergiqenoir” The headline left much to be desired, Gellert could admit, but a smile had made it’s way onto his face regardless and refused to fade. Coffee in hand, he scanned down the page and noted happily that his name had been placed above his partners, as he could truthfully say that he had done most of the work on the counter-spell. Not able to resist a satisfied smile as he partook in the sweet fruits of his most recent labours, Gellert continued to read through the article. He had credited Albus when writing up his findings for a German medical journal, wanting to leave him unnamed but not quite able to bring himself to cheat him like that. Without him it would have taken far longer to create the haling spell, might even have remained out of reach forever, and Albus deserved recognition for that. It sent a thrill through him to see their names side by side in print, but Gellert resolutely ignored his feelings in favour of reading through the rest of the article. He had’t expected to see anything about it in the general newspaper, but there it was on page six of the latest issue of ‘Bewitched Berlin’ the leading newspaper in Magical Germany. 

He was busy writing a letter to Vinda about the whole affair that had already sprawled across several pages when the door to his room burst open, the soft light of the morning falling through the window to frame a thin face that had haunted his dreams since last summer in the gold hues of the sun. Gellert subtly pinched himself, not sure if he was really awake, but it was him. It was Albus, the bond sending burning pleasure through both of them at their proximity as he stood in the doorway holding out a newspaper, a question falling from his lips to hang in the air between them. “What is the meaning of this?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Finally a chapter of substantial length! I'm really happy with this chapter, as it sets up a few different storylines that will affect the plot significantly in future and shows us a little bit about the revolution's origins. The transgender woman Eli was inspired by a trans girl I met recently who was bemoaning the lack of transgender representation in fiction where it's not the sole focus of the story, so I thought I'd correct that in my own work. What did you think of it? 
> 
> Please leave a comment, I'd love to hear what you thought about the whole chapter. Was it a little too disjointed? Did you like the return to a more magical-theory heavy selection of scenes? I'd love to hear your thoughts.


	7. A Spontaneous Decision

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Gellert receives an unexpected visitor, has an accident and signs up to a duelling competition. His visions feel vaguely familiar and then the evening takes a turn for the spontaneous when Gellert decides to forego planning in favour of trusting with his gut instincts for once.

“The meaning of what Albus?” Gellert managed, his voice measured and almost managing to sound casual. The door slammed shut behind Albus as he made his way into the room, expression wavering between rage and confusion.   
“This article, this, this lie. I never helped you on this spell, so why would you credit me on it?” Albus’ words cut deeply but Gellert found himself smiling, happy that his voice was strong, his hands, clenched in anger though they were, were not shaking, and there was anger echoing down the bond, which meant that he had stopped occluding. Albus had begun to heal. “Are you that desperate for my attention?” That time it hurt. Gellert swallowed his rage, knowing that he had to keep a level head to win this argument and trying desperately to control his urge to gut Albus with biting responses that would sting with unwelcome truth.   
“A lie? You did help.”   
“What are you talking about?” Gellert leapt to his feet at the question, moving towards Albus, who was still standing near the door as if afraid to come any closer. He suddenly found himself almost painfully angry, and he spat his next phrase at Albus, standing so close to him that another few inches would make it an embrace.  
“Your transfiguration corrections? The day you left?” His voice shook with anger as he remembered the sudden burning pain of the stretching bond that had coloured his first meeting with Nicolas Flamel so drastically. As he spoke Albus met his eye and Gellert saw something like recollection dawning in the blue that was somehow so much deeper than his memories of the colour that he thought he knew so well.   
“Oh.” Said Albus, voice small and expression suddenly unsure as he lost himself in memories. 

“You—” began Gellert, voice choked with emotion as he tried to put everything he felt aside to focus on the actual argument at hand, “You deserve the recognition.” That wasn’t what he’d meant to say. He had meant to accuse, to return some of the viciously painful experiences of what Albus had done to him, but instead he was complimenting the man who had broken his heart. Albus’ expression took on an unidentifiable edge, Gellert’s kind words causing the smallest of flinches as he processed what he’d said. Suddenly realising why, Gellert continued. “I never would have managed to bridge that key gap without you Albus, it was your proof as much as it was mine.” Albus swallowed, the sound harsh and loud in the six inches of air between their bodies, and Gellert sensed what was coming in a flash of understanding. The kiss was headily intoxicating, their bond singing in pleasure as they fell back through time to the summer, when every proof had been a joint effort and every moment felt like this. 

Albus spun them so that Gellert’s back was pressed uncomfortably into the wood of the door and recaptured his mouth in another heat filled, claiming kiss. Gellert moaned, sadness and anger draining out of him as his head fell back against the door, Albus’ mouth now focused on the very visible underside of his jaw. Gellert gasped as Albus bit down, harsher than he usually was, and felt Albus stiffen against him. More biting marks followed, a patchwork of bruises sucked into Gellert’s pale skin from his jaw the the top of his left collarbone, just accessible above the fabric of his shirt. “Please,” begged Gellert, though his lust addled mind couldn’t quite remember what he was begging for, and Albus responded with another open mouthed kiss that went straight to Gellert’s groin. His hand moved to return the embrace, knocking over a book as he wrapped an arm around Albus’ waist and deepened the kiss. Reluctantly pulling away from the kiss to breathe, Gellert stumbled towards his bed, still entangled with Albus, lips red and swollen from the harsh kiss as he fought for breath. He pulled Albus down towards him, arching up into the taller man but Albus was suddenly backing away, eyes brimming with tears as he looked at something on the floor by the bed. Gellert followed his condemning gaze to the book that he had so carelessly knocked over and winced. 

“You’re reading Magick Moste Evil?” Albus’ voice trembled with something like fear. “I don’t understand, it’s black magic. Why are you doing this?”   
“Haven’t you always understood?” Gellert’s voice was still a little hazy, the arousal coursing through his veins slowing down how he processed the abrupt change of topic.   
“Always understood? What do you mean? I would never condone this kind of dark magic.”   
“Dark magic? Don’t make me laugh, ‘dark’ is a matter of political stance Albus, you know this. What were your views on ritual magic again? And what about soul magic, it’s named the ‘darkest’ art there is?”   
“Soul magic is not inherently dark, that’s what you told me! I didn’t know that you were a—”  
“A what? A monster?”   
“Don’t—” Albus began, then stopped and tried again. “This has nothing to do with—” He sighed and pinched the bridge of his nose, the action so achingly familiar that Gellert thought he might cry. “Dark magic is harmful. What you’re learning to do is harmful. How could you do this?”   
“‘Use only the force necessary’ Those were your words Albus. This is the necessary force.” spat Gellert bitterly, and Albus’ eyes flashed with something that hurt to look at, a mixture of hatred and longing that did nothing to snap Gellert out of his state of arousal. “Whatever happened to the greater good?” Gellert was yelling now, both of them on the verge of tears before he clicked his fingers and summoned the note. “Here. Tell me you didn’t write that Albus. Tell me you didn’t know exactly what our vision of the future would hold for the both of us.” Albus blanched, grabbing the note and trying to light it on fire, but spell did nothing but warm his hands. Gellert smiled grimly, his jaw clenched as the raw magic protecting the note fought against Albus’ shame fuelled flames.   
“That’s not—”  
“Not what Albus? Not what you meant? Did you think that changing the world would be easy? That you could talk to the european ministry of magic and they’d just agree to hand over control peacefully? This is the only way to create change.” He laughed bitterly, opening his mouth to speak again. Albus shoved the note deep into his pocket, picked up his wand and apperated away, the last Gellert saw of him a broken expression that scarred itself into his mind’s eye. 

Gellert didn’t know how much time passed while he was lying on his side, staring blankly at the wall. The bond was painful, the metal of the physical pact itself cutting into his upper arm where it was lying against bare skin while the magic burnt his chest as the distance between them stretched over miles of land and sea once more. He absently brought a hand up to the bruises Albus had sucked into his skin, pressing his thumb into one and feeling a spike of pain which reassured him that the whole thing had been real and not some terrible nightmare. Slowly, as if he were made of glass, Gellert rose and went back to his coffee, finding it stone cold and too bitter. He made his way back into his room from the kitchen, a glass of water in hand as he sat down at the desk to finish his letter to Vinda, but when he put the glass down onto the edge of the desk, his hands shaking, he used too much force and it shattered. Not thinking, he swept the shards off the table with his hand, intending to vanish them once he’d clear up the water, and then had to muffle a cry of pain as a fragment lodged in the base of his palm where it met his wrist. 

Knowledge from his healing textbook flashed across his mind. He tried to flex his fingers but only the thumb, index finger and middle finger moved and dark blood welled up around the glass. The Ulnar Nerve was badly damaged then, probably severed all together, and at least one vein had been cut. He had to leave the glass where it was for now to stem the blood flow as best he could until he had his wand. He couldn’t do healing magic this advanced wandlessly, it would be foolish, and he could end up making things worse. Calling up his memories of nerve repairing charms, Gellert lunged across the room towards his wand on the bedside table, blood loss stealing away his vision in black spots that moved across what he could see of the room around him like sunlight through dappled leaves; ever shifting in senseless, patternless motion that made his feel vaguely sick. Missing the bed, Gellert crumpled to the floor and felt blindly for his wand. A moment later he held his wand in a sticky red hand and summoned the glass from his wrist wordlessly before speaking the healing spell out loud as clearly as he could. He needed the spell to work on the first try, because now that the glass was out of his hand the blood was pulsing out of the cut at a frightening rate. “Heilende sanandum.” The nerve mended well, he could bend all of his fingers now, but the blood kept welling up and running down beneath his hand to pool on the floor. When had he ended up on the floor? Blearily Gellert muttered healing charms that knitted muscle and tendon back together, the vein that had been slashed growing over the opening and finally slowing the the sickeningly fast spread of the pooling blood that had stained his floorboards. Finally muttering a skin repairing charm that had been inspired by the skin peeling curse he’d tried, to great effect, on a sixth year what felt like a lifetime ago, he felt the adrenaline coursing through his system begin to fade away.

He flexed his wrist, wincing as a sickening grinding noise was accompanied by the very strange feeling of his bones moving against each other in a vaguely disgusting manner, and tried to remember what could cause that. He furrowed his brow but his mind was blank, hazy and slow due to the blood loss, and he needed a blood replenishing potion to focus. He whistled, the note mournful and drawn out as he called for Cixi desperately, and tore the blank page out of the back of Magick Moste Evil, not wanting to waste what magic he had left on a summoning charm for proper parchment. Putting the parchment on a dry patch of the floor Gellert planned out a letter to Franz asking for a blood replenishing draft, then careful daubed a finger of his good hand into the pool of blood and began to write. Cixi arrived, winging her way through the open window and screeching her alarm at his state. “Franz.” He said, his voice shallow and weakly imploring. “Franz can help.” Sending her a mental image of the human he meant he smiled tiredly, then watched in total shock as Cixi picked up the note and dove not for the window but the floo box. She clawed the lid open and Gellert took a shuddering breath in, using the tiniest scrap of magic to flick a heap of floo powder into the flame before Cixi could dive through. As the flame danced green she hopped forwards and disappeared, Gellert hoping against hope that she would get to the right place as he faded into unconsciousness. 

When Gellert floated back into a vague awareness of his surroundings he laughed in relief. Cixi had made it through the floo and back, now resting fairly contentedly on Franz’ shoulder, only a little singed from her misadventures through the fireplace. Looking around, he blanched in horror as he registered the fact that he was lying in a puddle of blood that had spread over half the visible floor space. It looked like there was more blood on the floor than inside him, and Franz quickly uncorked the fourth of his blood replenishing drafts, glad he had brought so many. “Drink up Grindelwald. It tastes like shit but there you are. At least you’ll stay alive.” He said, and Gellert pulled a face, downing the potion before mustering up the strength to reply.   
“Never go into healing my friend, your abysmal bedside manner would be your downfall.”  
“I might have just saved your life you know.” said the man, and Gellert laughed.   
“What’s that got to do with anything?” he asked slyly, and Franz shook his head, their familiar jokes falling oddly flat as they each dealt with what had almost happened.   
“Nothing at all Grindelwald, nothing at all.” 

When he had recovered some of his colour, looking less like a corpse than someone who had merely never seen the sun, Franz offered one last potion and cracked a smile. This draft returned Gellert to his usual appearance, and he smirked as Franz visibly relaxed. “Would you have missed me?” He joked, and Franz shot him a halfhearted glare.   
“Were it not for the fact that I’ve just poured a rather high number of very valuable potions down your throat to keep you alive,” he said, pausing for effect before finishing his sentence, “I’d kill you just for that.” They both broke into giggles at the same moment, giddy with relief that they could make a joke of what might have been a much more serious situation. “At any rate I wouldn’t have missed you as much as whoever marked you up with those.” added the stockier man, gesturing toward’s Gellert’s throat. Gellert paused for a moment before remembering the blooming bruises discolouring his neck, the ardent display of Albus’ claim to him that was written across all of the visible skin between his shirt collar and jaw. His face closed down and he forced himself to open his eyes before tears could smear his vision, fixing Franz with a dark look.   
“I’m afraid you’re wrong there Franz. I’d appreciate it if that wasn’t mentioned again.” His voice was cold, his tone clipped and forcefully polite. Something in his eyes must have been appropriately threatening, because Franz shot him a nervous look and changed the subject. 

“Of course the real question here is are you still entering?” said the other boy, and Gellert forced the necessary puzzled smile onto his face.  
“Entering what?” He asked, his voice the picture of cheerful bemusement even as he fought to keep his temper in check. It had been none of Franz’ business, why had he felt the need to—.  
“Holy Mother Magic, you don’t even know about it?” asked Franz, incredulous, breaking through his swiftly darkening train of thought. “It’s only the German national duelling championships.”  
“Well I’m entering now.” said Gellert, excitement rising as he realised that he’d be going home to Germany for more than just nostalgia's sake as Franz’ laughter echoed in his ears. He had to do this and he had to win. Perhaps he had judged Franz a little too harshly for his earlier comments.   
“I thought you might. I’m fairly out of practice with that sort of thing, too busy brewing to get much duelling in at the moment, so I’ll just be watching this year.” The other boy didn’t seem too put out by that, and Gellert managed a smile and pointed out that he was rather glad that Franz had been brewing so much, as it just might have saved his life. “I suppose that it might have had its benefits, yes.” conceded Franz, and Gellert felt a frisson of real amusement at his companion as he laughed.   
“After all,” pointed out Gellert as the hilarity of the situation struck him once more, “It’s not every day you end up with a life debt from the greatest Arithmancer and most powerful duellist of your generation.” He said, tone ostentatiously full of himself before he broke into giggles, his dark mood lifting properly as he cracked the joke. Franz laughed along and the conversation soon drifted from the brewing of healing drafts to the applications of alchemy in said potions, the light fading from the sky as they caught up properly. 

The shock of the what had happened with the glass and Franz’ subsequent visit had given him no time to process what had happened with Albus. Gellert knew that he should be feeling resentful, angry even, but he wasn’t. A bitter tear tracked down his cheek as he began to feel the fresh salt of betrayal in his wounds that forced tears to well up in his eyes and spill over, no frozen anger present to stop the grief from flowing. He had always accepted Albus unconditionally, for all his fits of sudden anger and endearingly irritating idiosyncrasies. Albus had forgiven him for murdering his classmates, had shared with Gellert the darker side of his personality that was hidden from the world, and Gellert had thought he would understand. Why couldn’t Albus understand? He had done nothing but try to help Albus, to help his family, because he loved him. Why couldn’t Albus do the same for him? He had been so afraid of hurting his lover that he had bound their souls together for fear of what he might be forced to do at some point in the future, had protected him from everything he could. When Albus had been in physical pain that felt life threatening Gellert had saved him without a thought because they were in love. A quiet voice at the back of his mind was beginning to wonder why Albus hadn’t done the same for him. He had slit his wrist open, accidentally he would admit, but he still could have died. The only thing that had saved him had been his own ingenuity and Franz’ help, and Albus hadn’t come to his aid. Did Albus even care? He pushed the thought aside. It was stupid, of course he did. He probably just thought it was another duel. After all, he knew about Gellert’s fights in the blood pits and he had no reason to think he would lose one, so he wouldn’t worry. Of course, that must be it. With a slight smile making itself at home on his face, Gellert flexed his wrist again and wondered what was missing from his healing spell, the bones still feeling oddly out of place when he tried to move. 

Summoning his supplementary healing essay on the workings of the skeletal system from last year, Gellert began to read, and on the third page of his barely legible essay he found it. The pain was coming from the metacarpal bones in his hand which had started to rub against his wrist bones. The glass must have removed a layer of protective cartilage when it sliced through his carpal tunnel ligament. Gellert’s smile faded. He didn’t know the spell to reverse this damage. It hadn’t been on the healing curriculum so Professor Synap hadn’t bothered to teach it, a choice that Gellert had grudgingly understood at the time but was now looking like an egregious oversight. He needed to get to a library. 

The french magical library was shut when he got there, but Gellert neatly sliced his way through the wards after finding their weak spot and opened the door with the simple unlocking charm ‘Kinyit' They had protected against the blindingly obvious ‘Alohamora’, but the lesser known Hungarian charm had escaped their rather lax protections and Gellert shook his head at the stupidity of it all. Whenever there were protections developed against a specific charm there would always be alternatives created to get around the problem, and by the time people had become familiar enough with those to prevent them working there would already be others in use. It was cyclical and pointless. Gellert thought that he could probably develop a locking charm that would be unbreakable, but then again he might need to get into places in the future that were charmed to keep people out so he would take advantage of the inane stupidity of those around him. 

Gellert smiled lazily from where he was lying in bed, his room looking brighter in the candlelight without the worry about his oddly painful wrist. Vinda would probably say that he should have gone to a proper healer, but his wrist was back to normal now so he didn’t see the point, and he was rather proud of how he had handled the injury without professional help. He would have liked to keep the copy of the book that he’d got the healing spell from but he hadn't quite managed to shake his healthy respect for librarians and their wrath that Durmstrang’s resident book keeper had instilled in him, so it had remained within the library where he had found it. He had been about to douse his candles and go to sleep when a worryingly red letter shot through the fireplace and Vinda’s voice began to ring through the apartment. “Gellert Grindelwald why on earth did you credit that boy in your proof? All he’s done is make you feel awful over the past few months and he doesn't deserve it. Even if he did help you it would be quite within your rights to take all the credit. I would be saying this in person if it counted as a personal emergency, but I asked and the headmaster refused to let me leave as soon as he remembered that I’m your friend. Have a good evening and try not to waste any more time or ink on the past. With love, Vinda.” Gellert blinked and began to laugh. It was that or cry, and he’d already spent enough of the day doing that. What had Vinda been thinking, putting that kind of thing into a howler? What if he’d had company? It would have been unspeakably embarrassing. Smiling at the ridiculous actions of his friend, he sat up and summoned his half finished letter and a pen to reply. 

‘I think you will find my reasons for crediting Albus quite understandable if I get the chance to explain them to you. It is far better to credit him, not doing so would have marked me as vain and untrustworthy in academic circles if it had come to light, and after all he did deserve some credit. What he added was a breakthrough that I really hadn’t thought of. I would have had it in another few weeks but there’s something about the way his mind works that I—’

He hadn’t meant to add those last few sentences. He clicked his fingers and the parchment began to burn, flames curling over his foolish statement until ash floated down onto the pristine sheets around him. He blinked harshly, wondering why his eyes were wandering as he gritted his teeth and summoned more parchment. He had been a fool, but it was nothing more than a mote of ash that must have been caught in his eye. Beginning his letter once more, he grit his teeth and rewrote his account of the last few days, adding a short note explaining that it would sully his academic reputation to take all the credit at the end and saying nothing else about the incident. He flicked his fingers in the general direction of the floo and watched as the letter was wreathed in green flame before disappearing before outing his candles at long last in the attempt to sleep. 

Standing in the considerable queue that snaked around the outside of the duelling competition headquarters Gellert sized up his competition. Most of the other duellers looked as if they had ten years of experience on him, and some were rather badly scarred, but all of them looked almost peaceful in comparison to the people he’d faced off against in the fight pits and he began to smile. This might be a lot easier to win than he’d thought. Patience wearing thin, Gellert had to force down the urge to blast his way to the front of the queue. It would be satisfying, but sadly he would have to keep to more conventional rules in this duelling ring so he might as well get some practice in doing so now. Smiling, Gellert unclenched his glamoured jaw and began to recite what he could remember of the Aztec dictionary Tlaloc had given him in his head to distract himself from the incredibly boring wait. At least winning a duelling competition so woefully bogged down in paperwork was the seven thousand galleon prize money 

The weeks passed, sleet ridden February giving way to the bitterly chill storm winds of March, and Gellert was falling into a comfortable routine. He would wake, spent the morning taking part in preliminary duels that he could and did win without much thought, then go to Flamel Manor to work on his latest alchemy paper. Though Flamel didn’t realise it, Gellert had been using his lab to alchemically prove that Pyromancy was just a more offensive application of fire based alchemy but he would have to be very careful publishing this kind of thing. It was the fate of too many brilliant wizards to be consigned to the label ‘dark’ for having real insight. He had begun to learn Italian in his spare moments, picking up the basics of the language fairly quickly due to the latinate roots familiar to him from his spellwork. He had had too many evenings of solitude in which to contemplate his past and it had sufficed as a distraction as well as a useful skill to be developing over the past month. The evening before his first second-tier fight Gellert had very familiar vision. 

In the half light of a full moon Gellert watched himself leap from a window, the first hallow clutched in his hand as he put his original wand in the inside pocket of his robes, a manic glee shining in his eyes as the scene faded to mist. As the image faded into grey and silver Gellert noticed something he hadn't seen the first time. There was something a little familiar about the building. Swearing bitterly, Gellert tried to bring back the vision, sure he could have remembered why the shop looked so eerily reminiscent of somewhere he was sure he’d been before if only he could see it properly. Jerking awake Gellert slammed his hand into the wall by the bed in frustration, then swore again as his recently healed wrist was jarred by the pointlessly violent externalisation for his feelings. He needed to get a grip on himself. He took several deep breaths and checked the time. With his rage back in check Gellert unfolded his copy of the rules and regulations of the duelling competition, not wanting to change being disqualified over some petty spell that was deemed to dark for the squeamish duel regulators. Before he knew it the sun was rising and he could justify arriving at the duelling ring without it seeming too ridiculous. He apperated directly from the floo port to the duelling ring in Berlin, wondering if his mother would be feeling amiable enough towards him to actually meet up for coffee after his imminent victory. 

This opponent had been just as underwhelming to beat as the last three, but Gellert wasn’t surprised. There was no sense of either life hanging in the balance, no threat in all the bowing and pompous ceremony of an official duel. His opponent had even wished him good luck before the duel, and it was all so civilised that it made his skin crawl. A bone breaking curse had been on the tip of his tongue when the man had attempted his final attack but he’d managed to restrain himself to transfiguring the other man’s shoes to lead and disarming him. It had taken no small amount of self control to achieve, and Gellert felt that he deserved the applause of the spectators. Money exchanged hands and Gellert spotted Yagana in the front row, who shot him a smile from where she was leaning against the rail, a sizeable bag of winnings propped against the wooden panelling of the arena beside her. He grinned and nodded at her before excusing himself, applause ringing in his ears as he apperated to Munich. 

Breathing shaky, Gellert walked up to the porch of a place that he no longer thought of as his home and rang the doorbell. When his mother answered she looked almost frightened for a moment, and that was somehow worse than any reaction he could have dreamed up. Gellert watched as that sickening flash of fear was replaced by a wary smile, and when his mother had pulled up a slightly softer smile and invited him in, he walked through rooms that were both achingly familiar and strange to him as if in a dream. “So how have you been?” He asked, the ruptured silence deafening as they both sipped their drinks, Gellert taking the time to relish that half-remembered flavour of his mother’s coffee, something neither he nor Vinda could quite replicate.   
“I’ve had a promotion at work. I’m the senior witch on the team now.” she said, and Gellert winced. Had they really been reduced to the kind of awkward small talk exchanged by strangers? “What about you and that boy you were with when I… Well, when we saw each other in Godrick’s Hollow. You seemed happy.”   
“Yes. I was. We’re…” Gellert couldn’t bear to go into the sordid details here, when his mother had only just accepted speaking to him again and he was feeling so positive about patching things over with her. “We’re both rather busy. I’m living in France at the moment because I have a partnership with Nicolas Flamel in alchemical research. Albus is working on some work of genius in transfiguration circles, I haven’t caught up on how it’s going for a while actually.” His mother smiled at his stilted speech, the expression almost fond before she distracted herself by taking another sip of coffee. 

Their conversation happened in fits and bursts, the long silences in between them smothering and strangely heavy. It was all too reminiscent of the calm before the storm, and Gellert watched anxiously for the anger he had last seen in his mother’s eyes in Bathilda’s living room but it never came. “Well,” he said, able to bear the tension no longer, “I’m afraid I’m wanted back in Paris soon so I’d better be off.”   
“Of course dear,” replied his mother, the endearment seeming a little forced. “Give my regards to Vinda won’t you?” He nodded and bid her a final goodbye before fleeing the house. Too wound up to return home immediately, Gellert found himself wandering the streets of muggle Munich until he found himself standing by the granite coils of the stone guardian of the magical world.   
“Good afternoon.” he said pleasantly, and the dragon hissed it’s laughter.   
“I offer you my greetings for the last time, lordling.” Gellert frowned, wondering why it would be for the last time. It sounded ominous and Gellert had never been one to disregard the dragon’s strange warnings, but he pushed aside his concern and stepped through the arch after bidding the statue a final good day. 

He had spent a few happy hours in the library and was feeling perfectly calm when he made his way out as it closed for the night, inhaling the fresh spring air and feeling more positive about his mother. The benefit of hindsight had smoothed away the panic he had felt, allowing a clearer judgement of how the talk had gone, and he felt the beginnings of a genuinely pleased smile curling across his face when of the corner of his eye, he saw it. The corner of a shop window that looked somehow familiar. Gellert glanced up at the sky with bated breath and sure enough a heavy full moon lit the night with silver radiance just as it had in his vision. It was the right place. 

He shouldn’t even be considering this without a solid plan, he though to himself, and it would be downright idiotic to rush in and try to simply steal the most powerful magical object in existence, but a strange sense of certainty was emanating from his right eye, seeping through his skull and settling down in winding coils of unshakable knowledge around his other bones as he took a deep breath and walked up to the window. This was going to work. He felt it in every fibre of his being. His point of entry was a second floor window but a short climb later he was sitting on the windowsill with an easy smile and dismantling the anti-thievery wards. When he finally got a good look at the room that he’d just broken into he began to laugh. It was Gregorovitch’s wand shop. He heard someone stirring and bit the inside of his cheek to stop himself laughing again, instead creeping forward and then closing his eyes. “Who’s there.” said Gregorovitch, his voice still saturated with sleep, and Gellert continued to move forward, a disillusionment charm sliding into place as the light of the moon glanced in through the open window. Gellert moved with a strange sense of being both trapped in the moment and watching the way things unfolded in a totally detached manner, as if from a distance.  
“Lumos Maxima.” speaking the spell out loud had been another spur of the moment decision, but Gellert had no real plan here, gut instinct the only thing guiding his decisions. He scrunched his eyes as tightly shut as possible as the powerful light began to glow brighter and brighter, smiling as Gregorovitch screamed in pain. The white light had blinded him temporarily, and Gellert readied himself for a returning shot before realising with a smile that he didn’t have to. He had read several different theories on how the elder wand it’s allegiance was transferred, and after all, he had seen what would happen here the night before.

He flicked his wand in a disarming charm and just like that the first hallow was his. He had raised the powerful new wand in his dominant hand, ready to strike the killing blow, switching his thestral and birch wand to his left hand, but before he could the floo flared green and a figure appeared. Gellert felt his disillusionment charm snap, the shock of so unexpected a variable coming into play cancelling the charm as he shot a reactive killing curse towards the fireplace, green light blending with the crackling emerald of the flames. Shaking, Gellert realised with shock how easy the spell had come to him, and wondered if that was the influence of the hallow or just his desperation. Gregorovitch stood stock still for a split second and then lurched into action. Gellert lunged for the window as Gregorovitch’s arm shot out to grab him, but Gellert was away, the night swallowing him up as mad laughter rose in his throat. He had done it. The elder wand was his.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Another chapter is here, what did you think? Please leave a comment :) 
> 
> As the coming academic year is very important for me, I will be able to update much less frequently after next week, so this is a warning: updates will likely be sporadic, and getting a chapter up every month is my current optimistic guess. Sorry about this but as much as I love writing this my academics (and future) have to come first. HOWEVER LONG A WAIT BETWEEN UPDATES, REST ASSURED THAT I HAVE NOT ABANDONED THIS FIC. I have the whole story planned out now and I'm going to god damn finish it if it's the last thing I do. It's the least you guys deserve. Also I love doing it. 
> 
> Happy reading,  
> Frumion.


	8. Burnt Out Buildings

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Gellert's new wand makes destruction effortless, and a split second decision reveals horrifying details about someone he once considered a mentor, and once again he finds himself in sore need of a little retribution. His duelling progresses, and the sparks of his beliefs begin to light a fire that will change the world as he finds his voice at last.

Gellert was still giddy with it the next morning, the power radiating from him whipping up a thunderstorm that plunged the whole of Paris into a strange twilight, the heavy black clouds swallowing the city until every streetlamp had to be re-lit in the middle of the morning. Gellert felt as if he were coming apart at the seams, too busy trying to keep his magic inside his skin to feel anything from the bond for the first time since they had made it, and then gave up. With a laugh Gellert ducked into an alley and twirled the elder wand in a circle around him. The cobblestones wrenched themselves out of place and began to float, carrying him up to roof level until he could see over the whole city. He stepped off the cobbles onto the slates of the roof’s shallow incline and carelessly let them fall back to street level, not hearing the cracking of rough stone far below. He was wrapped in magic, his pulse jumping in his veins as his shoes sent sparks raining down off the edge of the roof with every step he took. Something had to shift. Three streets away a church steeple glinted, the metal warmed by the reflection of the thousands of gold windows of the city, and Gellert grinned. Was it a Sunday? He didn’t know. With a laugh he realised that it didn’t matter if it was, because he didn’t care. 

A memory rose unbidden in his mind. “Which is worse, ignorance or apathy?” Albus had been lying in the sun, hair tangled into a red halo and sticking up every which way when he’d asked Gellert that last summer.   
“I don’t know and I don’t care.” he’d shot back, unable to resist the joke, and Albus had kissed him senseless, laughing in the stolen moments when they’d had to part for breath.   
“I think it’s apathy.” Albus had said later, the debate rekindled when they were sitting in his kitchen sharing a bottle of firewhiskey. Gellert had disagreed. 

The memory faded, Gellert laughing quietly in the midday air because it was all he could do not to cry. He took a deep breath in and tasted the promise of the storm in every molecule around him. He brought the most powerful hallow down in a steep arc, tracing the path the lighting would take down from the sky. Gellert laughed, a twisted sound that was lost in the wind as the storm finally broke, lightning renting the storm-dark skies in two in a flash of brilliant white that hit the church. The roof cracked like an eggshell, the white light of the storm replaced by the merry amber of a hearth fire as the rain began to fall. An almost unearthly hissing filled Gellert’s ears as the fire burned through the rain, the strength of the heat pouring from the cracked roof of the church evaporating the water before it could put out the flames. Somewhere else in the city bells began to toll but Gellert couldn’t hear them through the tortured screams echoing from the burning building. It was a Sunday then. He jumped from the roof back down to the alley below, a silent ‘Arresto Momentum’ ensuring his safety. Wondering how the muggles had felt being burnt for simply being in the wrong place at the wrong time, as so many magical people had during the witch hunts before floo powder and flame freezing charms had been invented, Gellert ultimately decided that he’d rather not know and apperated back to the rooms at the theatre that had become home to him. 

The following day the fire was all over the French muggle news, having consumed the church entirely without burning so much as a brick of the buildings on either side. The muggle newspapers argued if it were the work of God or the Devil, the wizarding news attributing the storm to “Some dark ritual.” which Gellert laughed at until tears ran down his face. Whoever had written the article clearly had only the vaguest understanding of what ritual magic entailed, he thought scornfully, and then turned the page, hoping to find something a little more illuminating to read. It was a continuation of the same article, but before he could shut the paper in disgust a name he knew well leapt out at him. Flamel? He furrowed his brow and began to read the article properly, the paper shaking, his hands curling into fists as he read before sparks began to dace and the paper was transformed into white-hot flames, crumbling to ash in a matter of seconds. Nicolas Flamel, esteemed alchemist and discoverer of the philosophers stone, had spent six-hundred years donating money to churches, advocating for muggle religion in France and betraying his own kind by fraternising with the very muggles who had sought to destroy them all. Gellert was disgusted. No, he was beyond disgusted. He was enraged. How could any self respecting wizard ally himself with the church? He could not for the life of him fathom such a thing. 

It was his second fight of the evening, and he was trying to keep to defensive spells, doubting that even the blood wraiths would take kindly to having to banish body parts of his opponent twice in one night. His first fight had been cathartic, Gellert laughing as he cast tightly controlled destructive fire spells for the whole fight, limiting himself to pyromancy for the sake of revelling in a type of magic that Flamel condemned. His opponent had eventually given up the ghost to “Coquere Corde.” a heart burning curse that he remembered in great detail from the Black Family Grimoire which slow-roasted the heart inside the body until it was cooked through and ready to eat. There had even been a recipe for a preferred sauce to accompany the rather questionable delicacy, he remembered with a slight smile, but cooking wasn’t quite how he’d intended to spend the evening. He had come to rely on lethal curses a little too much during his initial stint in the blood pits and had almost cast one in the official duelling ring that risked his place in the national competition, which was entirely unacceptable, and besides, he wanted to prove a point. 

A curse that would have stopped his blood from clotting by vanishing the platelets that would help close the wound spun towards Gellert as he grinned, sweat pouring down his face as he dodged the curse. He was trying to win this fight using purely non-violent magic, just to even the playing field for his hapless opponent, and it was helping to break his habit of reactively casting bone-breaking curses. Gellert felt the elder wand humming in his hand, his magic rising in a mist of power around him as he did nothing, wondering how long he could resist going on the offensive. They danced back and forth across the sand, Gellert weaving between spells that came thick and fast until he was forced to put up a shield. The Euler shield that formed around him blossomed past the usual elliptic barrier into a sphere which encased him, a bubble of sorts that protected him from the barrage of spells being thrown his way. Bursting across the shield in a brilliant light show of iridescence, his combatant’s spellfire did nothing to Gellert as he looked down at the elder wand with awe. It was a thing of beauty, what he could do to the limits of magic with the wand he now held. Tiring of the fight, Gellert flicked his wand at the other man in a simple summoning charm, conjuring a floating stone that hung in the air between them. His simple combination of spells knocked the man out as he hurtled through space towards Gellert, who laughed as the unconscious body fell to the floor. Dusting himself down, he vanished his sweat and ran an absent hand through his hair to recreate the perfect wave he had left the house with as the cheering of the crowd swelled to a crescendo. With an abrupt jolt Gellert realised the opportunity he had been wasting for months. All those speeches that had languished in two dimensions could have been spoken here, where he had the ear of the singularly wide reaching audience in the heart of the underside of magical France. He put a finger to his lips, laughing as the crowd cheered again and taking a bow before they quietened down enough for him to speak. Willing his voice to become louder, he began to weave his version of the truth. 

“Thank you, Thank you, gentles all. Did any of you happen to see both my duels?” He began, and at the roar of assent he inclined his head, waiting for relative quiet before he continued. “They were both quite effective, if I may say so myself, but I kept to two different magical disciplines that are widely regarded as polar opposite. Battle magic, pyromancy and black artes of the darkest kind achieved the same result as a purely defensive set of ‘light’ spells, yet one is condemned as evil, forbidden by law and vilified as if a levitation charm isn’t just as lethal as the killing curse if applied correctly.” The crowd had been silent, hanging on his every word with bated breath, but now mutterings of assent echoed around the cavernous hall, voices blending together until all Gellert could hear was a rush of formless sound. “What if we could change that? Would you want to see a future where so called dark magic is no longer seen as the product of moral insanity?” As he asked the question he felt the mood of the crowd shift, resentment being erased in the face of hope, a fevered kind of excitement taking hold in the expressions of the denizens of the magical underworld. “What would you be willing to do to create a future like that?” He asked, a smile painting itself onto his face as he drank in the reactions of the crowd. “That is what I stand for. That is the vision of the future I have. Would you help me fight for it?” His final question hung in the air, suspended in the silence for a moment before the crowd began to respond. There was determination, the faces of ageing scarred warriors and rebellious young wizards displaying the same tense set of the jaw that suggested their unwavering support. There was concern too, the more reserved members of the audience unsure in the face of his bold promises, but perhaps most dauntingly of all, shining in every pair of eyes there was an overwhelming, crushing sense of hope. 

“What are you going to do about—”  
“How do you plan to—”  
“What can you—”  
“Would this extend to the restrictions on—”   
Dozens of questions were thrown from the crowd, Gellert’s head spinning with half formed answers as the next question pushed his responses aside in favour of a new topic. A broad smile grew across his features as he took on the challenge of fielding the flurry of enquiries that his succinct speech had inspired. It had worked. He felt his heart miss a beat as he began to answer the questions one at a time, a thrill of pride alight in his blood as he looked out at the storm of thoughts and hopes that his words had created. 

He talked through the afternoon, forgetting all about his appointment at the Flamel lab as he talked round the initially doubtful and expanded on his vision of the future in the fight pits deep below the city centre. It was almost completely dark by the time he got back to his rooms in the theatre and there was a small stack of letters lying in wait for him in the bottom of the floo box. He shuffled through them, smiling at Vinda and Imari’s familiar handwriting as well as a letter from Bathilda that looked promisingly thick and a short note from his mother before he tossed them aside in favour of remembering the roar of the crowd. They had loved his ideas. Gellert had known that the world should change for years, but he’d just assumed that no one else could see what was wrong with it because no one was trying to do anything about it, but he’d been wrong. The veela living on the ground floor were ready to wage a war for the rights they should already have, the spectators in the blood pits could see how corrupt the french ministry’s restrictions were, and he could finally see the first few sparks of his ideas catching alight in other people’s minds. It was intoxicating. 

Humming a lilting tune he remembered his cousin singing when they’d first met, Gellert walked into the kitchen and let out an unmanly screech he would deny later, the elder wand crackling with power as he prepared to hurl an offensive spell at the figure sitting in his kitchen. After laughing himself hoarse at Gellert’s reaction, Kaz offered a more civilised greeting and Gellert mustered up the grace to return his easy grin.  
“Such a polite hello Kaz, I might be fooled into thinking you’d grown up into a responsible adult in the years you’ve had to kick around outside Durmstrang if you hadn't just broken into my house.”  
“Good thing I did then, after all we wouldn't want you to get the wrong impression.” The man replied, and Gellert shook his head fondly before trying to direct the conversation in a more serious direction.   
“Have you had a breakthrough on your research on the political application of weather witchery in sub-saharan Africa then?” He asked, thinking back to what Kaz had been talking about when they’d last met.  
“Not all of us can get earth shattering research completed in a few weeks Gellert. I’m still in the historical research phase.” He said, his rich voice ringing with laughter.   
“Well there’s no need to flaunt your brilliant ideas if you haven’t written them up yet.” He teased. “I’ve been looking forward to reading your paper Kaz, and I’d like to do so at some point before we’re both old and grey.” There was more laughter and the conversation drifted out of academic waters and towards his recent stint in a legitimate duelling ring, Gellert unable to keep a smile off his face as he began to remember how much fun it could be to spend time with Kazadi.   
“You’re doing well in the German nationals.” There was no trace of envy in his friend’s voice as he spoke, the calm acknowledgement a surprise as the evening wore on. Gellert hadn’t expected the older man to be keeping up with the tournament to that extent, but as Kaz spoke Gellert found himself wearing a small genuine smile.   
“Of course I am.” He replied, and Kaz laughed loudly at him, his own smile wide and easy as Gellert handed him a beer. Gellert didn’t personally like the stuff, preferring something a lot stronger if he was going to drink anything, but Franz had informed him in no uncertain terms that he ought to keep some less girly drink in the house, whatever that meant, and had brought round a case of the weak excuse for alcohol that Gellert was now offering Kaz. The other man took a sip and hummed appreciatively at the flavour —week old ditchwater in Gellert’s opinion, but there was no accounting for taste— laughing again at his very obviously disgusted glance. 

“It will be glorious.” Said Gellert as the witching hour ticked past, gesturing wildly with his half empty glass of firewhiskey, “And our names will never be forgotten.” Kaz whooped, pointing his wand at the almost empty glass bottle he was holding and muttered a charm, refilling it with frothing amber liquid for the sixth time.   
“We will go down in history my friend. We’re the children of the revolution.” replied Kaz, but Gellert didn’t react beyond a nod, too fascinated by the feeling of a sudden rush of tingling that poured down his spine like embers from some ghostly fire that Kaz’s words had conjured.   
“Children of the revolution. I like that.” He muttered, and conjured a pen to write it down. He couldn't be bothered to find paper but the wall was close enough to reach, and he scribbled it across the lumpy wall, the blue-black ink starkly contrasting on the white of the paint as he fought the drunken scrawl to manage something a little more legible before taking another long draft of his whiskey. 

Gellert woke up with the taste of stale liquor in his mouth, his head still foggy as the last vestiges of his drunkenness faded away. Peering groggily at the window to judge the time, he winced and got up, stumbling his way towards the kitchen and a glass of water. Kaz was nowhere to be found, but as Gellert reached the sink he spotted a note floating above the cold tap and after he had washed the burning aftertaste of firewhiskey from his mouth he pulled it out of the air and began to read. ‘Didn’t want to suffer whatever heinous punishment you’ve devised for interruptors of your sleep. Headed back to Germany. Hope you haven’t given yourself alcohol poisoning. —Kaz’ Gellert vanished the note with a laugh, his mood somewhat restored before he conjured a clock face, swearing when he saw the time. It was later than he’d thought. He had only half an hour to get to the Flamel Mansion. Rushing to and fro, Gellert managed to get dressed, pick up his notes, force his hair into something vaguely presentable and make a strong black coffee before apperating down to the office he had taken to thinking of as ‘the floo room’ twenty-eight minutes later, and breathed a sigh of relief as he checked the time. He wasn’t late. 

His write-up of the unique aspects of his eternal flame spell could have been described as almost complete, but Gellert was unwilling to stop coming to the lab before his more clandestine research into the similarities of pyromancy to alchemy was complete and he had made at least one copy of all of Flamel’s rare Alchemy texts. As a result, he had taken to combing his research for errors and repeating his experiments in an effort to prolong his working relationship with the Flamels, and it was working. He just needed to keep his temper. The fact that Flamel —Gellert could no longer think of the traitorous alchemist by his first name— had spent the last four centuries financing genocidal muggles didn’t require immediate action. Gellert forcibly reminded himself that he still had to complete his alchemical research before he could pick any political fights as he stepped out of the laboratory for a belated dinner in the half-light of the encroaching dusk. Sitting down to the meal, Gellert cast an invisible potion-revealing charm on his food, only bringing a mouthful to his lips once he had assured himself that it was free of any kind of magical manipulation, and politely commented on the quality of the french dish. Given that he’d had coffee and a hangover potion for breakfast, the food could have tasted like Skele-Gro or Bubotuber Pus and Gellert was so famished that he still would have cleared his plate, but appearances had to be kept up after all, and polite small talk was an art he had mastered long ago. 

In the small hours of the following morning Gellert jerked awake to the tell tale crash of breaking glass, his latest fitful attempt at sleep torn away by the sounds of shattering glass. Instead of calling out any kind of stupid question that would let the intruder know he was there, he gripped the elder wand and silently ran through a list of curses he’d been meaning to test out on a proper wizard with a smile. He leapt up from the bed and was in the doorway of his room in one motion, wand raised to cast an interesting little curse that compressed the victim’s lungs which would induce an extremely painful death by suffocation until he got a good look at the trespasser. It was a child. A boy who could be no more than nine, clutching someone else’s wand with blue tinged fingertips, eyes brimming with horrified tears. Gellert disarmed the child and flicked his wand, thinking a quick ‘Petrificus Totalus’ as he examined the wand that he had caught. It seemed familiar, though he couldn’t place where he had seen it before, and he loosened the petrifying spell around the child’s throat muscles to get some answers. “Please sir, please don’t ‘urt me. I only did it for the money.” began the child, the high pitched babble of a strong London accented street rat grating on Gellert’s already frayed nerves.   
“Did what?” he growled, biting the inside of his cheek as he fought to control his anger.   
“Why, came here o’course. Some french lady’s payin’ me big to snoop around and steal ya letters. I reckoned it for a past lover Sir, jealous like, wanting to check up on you.” Gellert began to laugh. A french woman had payed a small foreign child to steal his love letters? He could come up with a better cover story in his sleep.  
“Well that certainly isn’t the truth.”   
“It is too—” began the boy, but Gellert’s laughter seemed to have thrown him off, fear and uncertainly dancing in his eyes.

“Ok, fine.” said the boy, slipping out of his english accent into German as Gellert removed the spell on his vocal chords. “It’s not true. None of it is. I’m from Berlin, and Stefan Relictus gave me a hundred and fifty galleons to put this on your wand.” Said Wolfgang, pulling a small grey metal band out of the breast pocket of his robes. After Gellert had threatened to use legilimency, then changed tack and offered the boy a hearty breakfast, Wolfgang had co-operated easily enough, and was soon chatting amiably with the very man he had ben payed so much to ruin. A messily modified diagnostic charm revealed the metal band to be some sort of magical damper that would sap his magic, leaching away the power of his spells and lending the stolen power to the creator of the ingenious little object. Even as Gellert marvelled at the intricate designs he felt ice dripping into his veins as his magic began to crackle with the need for vengeance. Relictus was to be his next opponent in the duelling championships, the fight deciding who moved forward to the semi-final, and he has attempted to cheat his way to victory. Gellert would have to do something about that.   
“Very interesting. Your candour is appreciated Wolfgang. I’ll be keeping this,” he said, sliding the strange magic damper into his trouser pocket as he offered the small boy a smile, “But I’m curious about how you came to be involved.”   
“Well sir, I’m a kleptomancer, so it’s just business for the likes of me.”   
“You are in the business of stealing magic?” Asked Gellert, half wondering if magic could be stolen with a spell that wouldn’t simply destroy the body’s magic system.   
“No no, you were a special case sir. It was the only way out from between a rock and a hard place. I had your man Stefan Relictus on one side saying I owed him double, and the aurors on the other going after dad for trading stolen goods, not knowing it was me that stole them goods in the first place.”   
“I don’t follow.” said Gellert, and the boy grinned cheekily.   
“Well our mutual friend Stefan made all them aurors disappear, and all I had to do in return was slip that thing onto your wand before the nineteenth of the month. I’m just a thief really.” 

Gellert mulled over the strange encounter as spring rain lashed the kitchen windows. Wolfgang had left his floo address and offered to provide Gellert with some very useful information on the Parisian trade in illicit magical goods in return for Gellert’s lessons on basic explosives one could easily make with nothing more than a trip to the apothecary, which Gellert felt was more than fair. The boy had been scruffy, talented and reminded him of Franz, the pale boys sharing more than looks. There was a quiet intensity about the child that Franz had always had, and neither of them blinked very often, but that was an idle curiosity for another day. Gellert had things to organise. Snapping his fingers, he summoned a loose sheet of parchment and began to write out a list of possible ways to revenge himself against Relictus’ malicious attempt to sabotage his fight. His first order of business was to find a way to nullify the magical damper, the idea of being that vulnerable not sitting right with him, and he would need to control himself in the duelling ring too. Making a note on the edge of the parchment he smiled and stretched, cracking his back and heading back into his room to get dressed. 

Weeks melted past and Gellert found himself spending his days sitting in the sun, the beguiling warmth of a french spring coaxing him out of doors into the strange rooftop world of the city, suspended between the endless silence of the spring sky and the hustle and bustle of the muggle and magical cities spreading out below him. There was a strange sense of solitude above the world, the lamenting cries of the birds his only company when the endless stream of pointless chatter couldn’t be heard and the filthy smog coating the city seemed far away. Gellert had began some research into the arithmancy of secrecy spells, spending less time at the flamel manor to prevent any of his more extreme views from surfacing in front of the zealous couple. The magic of secrecy was an enthralling topic that had caught his attention when he’d found out about Relictus’ plot against him so easily. Misplaced trust could spill a secret, ruin a life, and once shared a secret was impossible to control. It was a terrible oversight to have so little choice in the way of secrecy spells, and though there was the unbreakable vow it carried too much stigma to be wielded by a magical court or government due to it’s dark components, but Gellert thought that he might be able to change that. At the very least, it would be interesting to try. 

His nights were spent duelling below the city in an almost frenzied manner and drinking with his many acquaintances, snatching a few hours of sleep here and there and creating his own pseudo laboratory. It was in Switzerland, a tumbledown house high in the mountains which he had warded against muggles, and anyone else that might come wondering past, before making some changes. He had ripped out the floor above the basement and replaced it with an indestructible glass threaded through with an invisible net of stasis spells that would keep any alchemy projects or potions from degenerating over time, while allowing him to ensure that nothing had turned toxic in his absence. If he had used his old wand it would have taken him the better part of a week to add the charmed glass, but with the first hallow everything had been accomplished in a single afternoon, the sheer power dancing at his fingertips eager to be used for something truly complicated. The kitchen had been left mostly the same, the most modern plumbing installed with a flick of his wand in a spare moment the week previously but otherwise left alone. The other rooms on the ground floor to which he allocated transfiguration, arithmancy and charms research, now housed two walls that had been transfigured into big blackboards. The other two walls were left wood, and two days before his next official duel there was only the attic left to change, but it would serve his purpose well enough. Pinning up his scattered notes on secrecy spells on the wooden half of the charms room, Gellert took a final look around, satisfied with what he saw, and apperated away without a sound.

The day before the duel Gellert put his anger aside, wanting to examine the dampening device at the Flamel Laboratory and start work on a protection against such instruments, and when he dusted himself off after the floo journey he was too distracted by his musings to fell the usual stab of anger at the sight of Flamel. They made their way down to the lab and hours seemed to melt past as Gellert cast every diagnostic charm he could think of on the odd ring of metal. It seemed to be connected directly to it’s creator’s magic, as it held a magical signature when activated on a wand transfigured from some spare parchment, but Gellert couldn’t figure out how it had been connected. He had grudgingly asked Flamel for a second opinion and discovered, to his horror, that the magical dampener only took effect if his magical signature was on the ‘wand’, Flamel’s transfigured fake electing no reaction whatsoever, and after that alarming discovery the alchemist had suggested they take a break to have lunch and talk things through upstairs. 

“It is strange Gellert, that the device was specific to you.” said Flamel over a light lunch of Bouillabaisse, and Gellert inclined his head, dipping his spoon into the rich soup and taking another sip to avoid having to voice his thoughts. It was the only way anyone would be able to beat him in a duel, and in a way it was a perfectly understandable plan, and a fairly intelligent one as cheating schemes went. If it had been used against any other wizard Gellert would have been intrigued by the magic required to create such a thing, however as it was he was struggling to let the vile little man life long enough to face him in the duelling ring. “But is it not worrying that people are perverting magic in this manner? We are living in dark times.” Flamel’s voice was papery and frail as he continued, and Gellert swallowed back a twisted laugh. This turncoat, this traitorous worm of the church, dared speak of sick perversions? Gellert had found his anger once more, ice flooding his veins as he felt the sting of the many deficiencies of the people he was surrounded by.   
“Well I suppose you’d be the expert on that Nicolas.” He managed, his lighthearted joke a desperate attempt to turn the conversation back towards alchemy.   
“Yes, and these certainly qualify. This terrible magical stealing ring, the rising crime rates in Paris, the attacks on muggles.”  
“Attacks, sir?” Gellert asked, a sinking feeling in his chest as he hoped that they were not straying into the territory he thought they were.   
“Didn’t you hear about that church that got struck by lightening?” Replied the ageless man, and Gellert felt his smile calcify on his face, remaining perfectly natural in appearance as hatred crystallised behind it.   
“I don’t really follow the muggle news, and I’ve been busy, so I’m afraid I’ll have to admit ignorance here.” he said, his tone appropriately curious.   
“A dark wizard conjured a storm, and a church steeple was struck by lightning. Forty-seven muggles died.” Said Flamel, his expression grave, and Gellert swallowed, horror painting itself onto his expression as he fought back the laughter threatening to ruin his act. “It’s a terrible thing Grindelwald. An act of unprovoked violence that the ministry should have been more guarded against.”

Gellert didn’t know how the conversation had swerved so suddenly from a personal attack on him to the church fire he had caused, but he resented it. Flamel evidently didn’t care abut his wellbeing all that much, if he could so easily dismiss what Relictus had attempted to do to him as a product of the ‘Terrible times’ they were reportedly living in, and Gellert found that he quite resented the casual display of apathy. He made his excuses and retrieved the metal magic binder from the laboratory, only half listening to his own words as he bid Flamel and his wife as fond a farewell as he could manage, and stepped through the fireplace and back into Paris. The afternoon seemed to melt away as Gellert reread his latest research on secrecy spells, darkness enveloping the spring evening as the night unfolded her lengthening cloak of shadows as he made amendments to his notes, the margins densely packed with more of his theories inked in his distinctive spiky hand. 

As the duel began it took everything Gellert had to stop himself from inverting the man’s lungs, peeling back his skin and casting the Hela Wasting Curse. Instead he forced himself to transfigure the robes Relictus was wearing to stone, disarming him in less than a heartbeat and offering a tight smile as the crowd cheered his advancement to the semi-finals of the German national championships. With a flick of his wand he reversed all of the cloth to stone transfiguration save for a single fold of the other man’s shirt that the crowd couldn’t see, and offered his hand. He tightened his grip imperceptibly on the shorter man’s hand and let some of the sheer rage he felt leak into his eyes as he ground bones together with the force of his grip. “Congratulations.” said the man, his eyes glittering with pain.  
“I know what you tried to do Relictus.” He said, releasing the hand he had gripped with a smile, dark promise swirling in his eyes. “And I do not forgive it.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thoughts? Leave a comment. Things are finally beginning to move, and I'm intrigued to hear what you all felt about it.


	9. Paper and Starlight

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Healing research that would see him condemned across the world, a duelling competition that is growing ever more heated as the finals approach, three words written in a curling script that owns his heart, when will Gellert find the time to stop and simply breathe?

Tlaloc materialised at Gellert’s elbow as soon as he walked through the doors of the fight pits, offered him a beaming smile and ushered him straight into the ornate room Gellert had frequented least in the subterranean complex of the blood wraiths. “You’ve created quite a stir Little Yaotlpilli.”  
“I’m pleased to hear it.”  
“Yes indeed, I can hardly walk the corridors here without the echoes of your speech reaching my ear. It’s an incredible thing, the hope you have managed to inspire.” At this Gellert found heat rising in his cheeks, and he had been on the verge of replying with something palatably polite when he remembered the question he had hoped to ask the Aztec mage this evening.  
“Is there a way to turn the power of blood against the wizard it belongs to?” Instead of the smile he had hoped to pull from the older man, Gellert watched as Tlaloc’s face shut down completely.  
“It would go against magic itself to try such a thing. The blood makes the wizard, Yaotlpilli, and it is a sick thing to invert the natural order in such a way.” Said the suddenly cold mage, his black eyes emotionless pits as he spoke, and Gellert quickly apologised for his lack of knowledge, aware that if he didn’t fix the situation that his idle curiosity had created he risked his only link to the warded lands of the Aztec blood mages. Gellert couldn’t help but disagree with the odd moral code of not turning a person’s blood against them, as it seemed like it could be one of the most influential branches of blood magic, but he would have to keep that opinion close to his chest for now, not willing to jeopardise the opportunity he had been given.  
“I’m sorry for the offence I caused. I lack the knowledge of your customs that would allow me to understand Aztec tradition, so I hadn’t understood the cultural significance of asking a question like that.” To Gellert’s relief, Tlaloc visibly calmed, a small smile gracing his features as he sliced his wand through the air in the tightly controlled half turn of a summoning charm. Gellert felt the magic strike out, something separating it slightly from the summoning charm he usually used, and taking a closer look at the wand in Tlaloc’s hand revealed a glamoured blade. Of course, Gellert found himself thinking, the magical conduit would affect the spell. 

The objects that Tlaloc had summoned flew into his outstretched hands and Gellert caught sight of strange runic script before the books were shoved unceremoniously into his arms. He began to thank the Aztec wizard, but his half spoken gratitude was waved away before he could finish, the older man’s scars stretching around a wide smile. “There’s a Nahuatl to French dictionary I created on the top of the pile, and a few history books, but they are all in Nahuatl and I’m afraid that’s all the help you’ll get from me for the time being.”  
“Well I’ve always loved a challenge.” said Gellert, his voice carefully modulated to sound enthusiastic but a little biting, despite the rush of sheer joy he really felt.  
“The high mages of Tenochtitlan do not wish the road you walk as an outsider learning our blood-secrets to be an easy one, so I am bound to say nothing more.” replied the enigmatic mage.  
“Thank you Tlaloc, I’ll tell you how I get on with it.” He said, and after another few minutes of exchanging lighthearted barbs with the other man Gellert found himself on his way once more, the books shrunk down and secreted in the innermost pocket of his coat. Breathing a sigh of relief, Gellert let a grin split apart the polite expression he had been wearing as he allowed himself to display the muted adrenaline rush that came with a properly challenging intellectual problem. He apperated back to his rooms and happily resized the books, putting them reverently on the left hand side of his desk, heavily warding the shelf before he cracked open the dictionary and began to study. 

Tracing the blood rune he had just read about for invisibility in the air before him, Gellert apperated to Frankfurt and let the elder wand spin, suspended horizontally in the air above his palm for a moment before it stopped dead, the ‘point me’ spell that Sasha had taught him recently taking effect as his magic found it’s way to Relictus. Gellert set off, following his wand and soon caught sight of the underhanded pathetic excuse for a wizard walking calmly down the main street of the magical district. Speeding up, Gellert strode towards him until they were nose to nose, Gellert taking a second to perfect mirroring the other man’s pace while walking backwards before clicking his fingers and rippling into visibility. Relictus screamed, fright marring his pale features as Gellert fought to control his laughter. “So nice to run into an old friend. How’ve you been Re?” He said, and the few people who had stopped to watch the confrontation continued on their way, laughing or shaking their heads at the antics of the two men, clearly close friends. Gellert grinned and slung an arm around the terrified man’s shoulders. He forced the other man’s face to assume a jovial expression, the glamour sliding into place before he pulled them both towards a pub. When they had both drunk a little and he felt Relictus grow comfortable enough that he would likely make a break for it soon, Gellert smiled and appeared the two of them through the night to the cellar of what he was hoping would become his research facility in Switzerland. 

The first thing he did was disarm Relictus, and he had been on the cusp of snapping the other man’s wand before thinking better of it and putting the ugly blackthorn stick to one side. “How did you make that metal band specific to my magic?” He said, and Relictus looked at him, more confused than anything else.  
“Don’t you want to know how I came up with it?” he asked, and Gellert twirled his wand lazily, watching as the blood in Relictus’ hand began to boil.  
“No. Now answer the question.” He said, making sure to speak slowly, no wanting Relictus to miss anything on account of the unbearable pain he was inflicting. As Gellert bore Relictus’ screams with a dispassionate sigh, his eyes lit up, a brilliant idea forming as he watched the man begin to writhe in pain on the floor of his cellar. He hadn’t had the chance to examine the last person he’d tried the cruciatus curse on, but he’d been meaning to reverse engineer a spell that would reduce the physical effects of long term exposure to the curse for ages, and now was as good a time as any to begin his research.  
“Please.” moaned the man, and Gellert healed his hand with a thoughtless ‘finite incantatem’. Before he could curse himself for using a charm that was far too simplistic the crying stopped and Gellert blinked, surprised. That charm was only really meant for reversing simple spells, and certainly wouldn’t remove any prior damage, but the vastly overpowered charm had been elevated by the elder wand to something that acted like a fairly advanced anti-burn-damage healing charm. The power he had was incredible, he thought to himself as he began to appreciate how the strange mixture of intent, unstoppable power and thoughtlessness had just warped a household charm everyone knew into something far more powerful. 

Graphs floated around him in the dark of the cellar, the strange effect of his simple charm represented in a mixture of lines and equations whose glowing light threw sharp shadows across the room. Relictus was now babbling questions, looking mutinous and probably planning an escape attempt, but Gellert was sure that a man as weak minded as Relictus couldn’t successfully break through his ward system, so he wasn’t too worried, tuning out the irrelevant noise as he examined the graph of the mutated Finite Incantatem. It was fascinating. Wondering if the same strange results could be achieved with his old wand, he pulled it from an inner pocket in the lining of his waistcoat recast the blood boiling charm. Tired of the noise Relictus was making, Gellert almost cast a silencing charm before realising that it could have unforeseen outcomes on the experimental data he was gathering, and resigned himself to the screams of pain with a put upon sigh. Taking a deep breath and steadying his racing heart, he cast Finite again, and slumped in disappointment when it didn’t have the same effect. Swearing, he jotted down his conclusion and sketched out some perfectly ordinary spell graphs. It was irritating, the way the results he achieved with the elder wand weren’t repeatable by others. It meant he would have to be a lot more careful when doing academic research in future. 

Glad that he had got that cleared up, Gellert glanced over the now unconscious Relictus towards the stairs, where the light of dawn seemed to be seeping into his cellar. “Well you’re not going anywhere I suppose.” he said to the slumped figure, but to just to make sure Gellert muttered “Tas.”, sketching the hieroglyph with the elder wand and watching as ropes twisted into existence and secured the unconscious man to a loop of metal he had grown out of the rock wall of the cellar. With a final glance around the room Gellert shot a powerful sedative charm at the unconscious figure as an extra precaution against escape, picked up his notebooks and left. The door slammed behind him, an extra set of containment wards glowing for a moment as he activated them, and Gellert turned, silhouetted by the first rays of dawn for a moment as he stood in the doorway before he apperated back to his flat in France with a crack he couldn’t be bothered to silence, wearily grateful for the Swiss-French alliance of the past four years that had meant that they now had no stringent border controls. No powerful wards stood in between him and his bed, and just then, sleep preying at his heels as he moved through the nowhere between Here and There, for that simple fact alone he was inordinately pleased about the treaty. He hadn’t got around to his actual research, too distracted by the numerous possibilities that the elder wand brought, but the hows and whys of the magic suppressor seemed unimportant now that he had the opportunity to advance the field of healing once more with what he hoped could reverse the effects of the cruciatus curse. He had admittedly got rather off topic even on that research tangent alone over the last few hours but who could blame him? He was in possession of the most powerful Hallow, it stood to reason that he would be curious. Back in his rooms in Paris, he made a few notes on how magic changed when using the most powerful hallow, then summoned a book on the effects of the cruciatus curse on the circulatory system. It was one of the mastery healing textbooks he had bought a few months ago, and he had made his way through the better part of a chapter before wondering if he had any food left in the house for breakfast. 

Not finding anything in the cupboards, Gellert rubbed his face tiredly and applied a glamour to the dark circles smudged under his eyes, not wanting to appear as if he had been up all night. Gellert closed his eyes and apperated to a street corner not too far from the nicest breakfast place Vinda had ever found, pulling the loud crack from his apparition with a brief thought. He had just sat down when a glance at the muggle newspaper had him shivering, a deep set fear that had haunted him since childhood taking hold once more as his right eye began to burn with terrible certainty. ‘Delcassé Secures British Alliance For France.’ The words swam before him and he began to shake, his mouth filling with the bitter metallic flavour of blood as corpses bloomed before him and trenches cut jagged lines through Europe, landships crawling across the horizon to spit fire out at the world. Drifting back into awareness, Gellert realised that he had failed. Whatever war was coming that he had been so busy shoring up support to prevent would come. He had seen it for as long as he could remember, had always known that the muggles would try to kill each other at some point, but he hadn't realised how little time he had. He had thought it would be further away from the present, had thought he had years to change the course of history, but somehow the french muggle Delcassé had locked the events of the future into motion, and now there was only the chance to mitigate the damage it would cause. Feeling sick, Gellert stumbled from the cafe without ordering, sparing only the barest of glances for the fearfully staring muggle customers as he left. 

When he had at last reached the sanctuary of their rooms, Gellert’s first thought had been to write to Vinda, but before he could do more than address the letter, the floo flared green and a letter shot towards him. He cracked the seal with shaking hands, wondering how and when he and Vinda had become so in tune with each other that they synchronised their correspondence as he began to read. The tone of the letter was warm and fairly happy, but the cramped slant of her handwriting told a different story. Vinda was highly distressed and trying to hide it, but the press of the pen belied a stiff hand, probably from some sort of duelling injury, and her thin spiked handwriting was both angry and fearful. When Gellert reached the end of the letter he put it down onto the table with a worried frown, wondering what his friend was hiding from him and how much she was really suffering.

He knew the summer had been hard for her, and school couldn’t be easy when everyone knew her best friend had experimented on another student with fatal consequences, but he didn’t know how to help. Gellert put his head in his hands and rubbed at his temples, wondering if he should have pressed Vinda more to speak about her problems and how he could help her when he had no access to the school. Albus would have been better at this, the emotional side of a friendship. The thought hit him at a vulnerable moment, the bond twisting in his chest for a fraction too long for Albus not to notice on the other end of their connection as he tried to put the discomfort from his mind, biting his tongue and forcing the idea away. He was perfectly capable on his own. Ignoring the bile rising in his throat, Gellert pulled out a fresh sheet of parchment and began his response. Despite his mounting horror at the day’s events, he kept his tone light and reminded Vinda frequently that he would always be there for her, and of their plans for the future. After a second’s deliberation, he left out the dark vision that had coloured his morning, not wanting to worry his friend, instead ending the letter on his plans for research into the cruciatus curse and how a theoretical healing spell he was working on could potentially reverse some of the worst damage. 

After sending the letter Gellert felt much better, despite the fact that he hadn’t really addressed any of his worries, or found a subtle way to solve Vinda’s. As he felt something in his chest relax, he realised quite how much he had been missing Vinda. Cixi kept bringing him dead rats, and as much as he appreciated the gesture Gellert felt that Lamellar would think the gifts much more considerate than he did, and Vinda sounded as if she was barely holding it together. Worry scraped at the inside of his skull, but against all odds he found himself drifting off at his desk and when he jerked into a wakeful state once more the sun was hanging low in the sky. It took a moment for Gellert to reorientate himself and figure out what had woken him, but when he had rubbed the sleep from his eyes and taken a second look around the room he spotted it. A newspaper, balanced precariously on the lip of the floo box. Gellert picked it up with mounting trepidation. It was in English. Gellert’s heart soared, hope flooding his mouth before he could stop it as he flicked through the paper in search of the slanted looping handwriting that had etched itself across his soul. When he found it his pulse seemed to roar in his veins, the thumping of blood through his body deafening as he fought to process what it said. A pale rendition of fire flickered and leapt up towards the sepia storm inside the photograph. ‘Extremist Anti-muggle Faction Grows Bolder On The Continent.’ the headline was damning, and in the wide margin Albus had written three words that tore a hole through Gellert’s chest. 

‘Was it you?’ 

Gellert crumpled up the paper, sparks dancing at his fingertips before he forced himself to dissipate the destructive magic, leaving the paper undamaged. With a tap of his wand the newspaper was ironed flat once more, and Gellert got up with a heavy heart to put it with the rest of his collection. He had been collecting newspaper cuttings of interest for years, and had a section of the rotating library case dedicated to them, but somehow this seemed different. Before he had quite realised what he was doing, he had tapped a sheaf of papers and he watched, removed from his own actions by a wall of transparent ice. Crystals of brilliant blue the same shade as Albus’ eyes grew out of the thick black leather his magic had conjured as a binding. Gellert closed his eyes and tapped the newly bound book once, hoping that the sheer power of the elder wand would modify the copying spell properly based on his intent. He put the thick book he had just created under a corner of his mattress without checking if his charm had worked, not able to bring himself to wonder if all of the notes he had from Albus had transferred themselves into the book or not. 

He couldn’t reply to the question Albus had sent him. He wouldn’t let himself. After what must have been hundreds of letters Albus sent him three words, an accusation. He couldn’t honestly be expecting a response. Brushing aside a tear, Gellert readied himself for bed and did his best to ignore the guilt-inducing cocktail of suspicion and hurt echoing down the bond from Albus’ side. That night he dreamed of a phoenix made of paper and starlight and woke as the sun rose with the bitter flavour of regret thick on his tongue. 

He needed to get hold of a time turner. Days had blurred together as the semi-final duel date approached, Gellert dividing his free time between the blood pits and his books fairly equally. Fitting in semi-regular research sessions at the Flamel lab when he could manage it, sleep seemed to be a distant memory as April drifted into May and overblown blooms appeared in every window box in the city. It was five days before Gellert remembered that he did in fact have a time sensitive private research project currently wasting away in Switzerland. He didn’t want Relictus to starve to death before he had the chance for further research, and it had been a shock to discover that in his absent-mindedness he had almost let that happen. A time turner would solve all of those problems. Too often Gellert found himself seriously close to losing a duel in the blood pits due to sheer exhaustion, and he couldn’t afford for the same thing to happen in the semi-final of the German Nationals. After downing a pepper-up potion late that night, Gellert began to formulate a plan. 

Time turners proved much more elusive than Gellert had expected. He had assumed that any suitably highly ranked ministry official would be issued with one to maximise their productivity, but it was apparently more complicated than that. If Gellert were in charge he would give one to anyone who was expected to work more than a set amount of hours a day, as well as any academics that applied for one given their research was government facilitated, but the current method made far less sense. The use of time turners was a highly regulated affair, the Time Office guarding the thirty they had with a zealous fervour that Gellert couldn’t deduce a logical reason for, and he found himself growing steadily more irritated by ministry bureaucracy as he applied for one in France, and then Germany without success. He disliked having to steal one when there was a paper trail connecting him to the potential crime with a clear motive, but it looked as if it were the only option he had left. He had been on the point of trying his luck with an overpowered summoning charm despite the incriminating magical residue it would leave behind when he remembered Wolfgang, the strange little thief he had met before his duel with Relictus. If anyone in Paris could get him a black-market time turner, Gellert was willing to bet a considerable sum of galleons that that child would know. 

“A time turner? Off the books?” repeated the irreverent child the following afternoon, eyes as wide as saucers, “Not possible. No one can get one of them.” Gellert swore bitterly in Russian before thanking the boy and apperating back to France. It had taken a surprisingly long time to find the child in Germany, as the address he’d given Gellert had turned out to be false, and Gellert didn’t want to remain in close proximity to the source of his irritation when he quite liked the boy. Deciding that he could do with some quiet time for research and relaxation, Gellert donned his shabbier robes, slung a few relevant notebooks and reference books into his satchel and apperated from France to the house he had renovated in Switzerland. 

Before Gellert began his spellwork he cast several diagnostic charms on Relictus, who was coming round after Gellert’s roughly administered nutrient potion. He had owled Franz for three, not sure of the dosage he could safely give the odious little man but not quite caring enough to ask. After healing the rope burns the idiot had twisted into his own skin in an escape attempt, Gellert was satisfied that he was in good enough health to participate in Gellert’s healing project. “Cru—” before he could even say the second syllable Gellert was interrupted.  
“You’re sick you know” The conversational tone the other man had achieved was fairly impressive under the circumstances, and Gellert had almost offered a compliment on his acting skills before he shook away the tangential thought and attempted to return to the task at hand before being interrupted again. “Why are you doing this?”  
“Because you tried to cheat me of the national duelling champion’s status. Seven thousand galleons, acclaim and a public platform. I told you when you lost. I do not forgive.”  
“But why like this? Why some sick experiment?” Asked Relictus, his playing for time growing desperate.  
“For the greater good.” The phrase hung in the air for a moment, Gellert forcing down a pang of hurt and relishing the fearful expression on Relictus’ face. 

“Crucio.” The incantation was soft, the word falling from his lips easily with an easy familiarity as he focused his mind on the task at hand as echoes of the previous summer bloomed behind his eyelids.  
Wasting no time, Gellert cast a modified version of the diagnostic charm he had used on Ladislav the summer previously that would create a replica of the patient’s nervous system and watched the shifting play of light caused by the torture curse. The rot-sweet flavour of the dark curse threatened to send Gellert into a soporific trance, but he forced himself back towards total awareness by extracting three graphs from the spell displaying Relictus’ nervous system. The first showed basic pain levels, the second extrapolating permanent damage over time from the first. The final graph showed his heart rate, brain function and blood pressure compared to a normal wizard’s readings, and Gellert watched in fascination as the three graphs snaked up and down in tandem, the pain levels directly proportional to both permanent damage and heart rate, and inversely proportional to brain function. Too busy jotting down a copy of the floating graph with the next five minutes accounted for with projected changes in Relictus’ state, Gellert didn’t notice until readings on all of his graphs dropped to zero that Relictus had been quietly dying as he studied the trends in the data he had gathered. Putting a powerful statuses charm on the corpse, Gellert cast a general cleaning charm at the spot on the floor where the body had been slumped and made his way upstairs, his notebooks floating up after him as he pocketed the elder wand, the body stored in a cold box until Gellert had time to perform a full autopsy. 

Gellert had a smear of chalk on his forehead where he’d rubbed the beginnings of a headache away with a dusty hand and a wide smile on his face. He had worked through the night and most of the next day, but he had it. He finally had it. The key to representing his curves graphically had been to plot each component against time, then rearrange the two equations for one larger one. This process was repeated until he was satisfied that he had a general equation for the effects of the cruciatus curse, as well as one for each of the individual effects. Unlike the spell graph, each individual component effect on the victim was represented by a non-circular formula, meaning that a reciprocal could be found. Gellert was giddy with the knowledge that he had just played the foundations for once more achieving the impossible. It was thought that because there was no way to block the graphically circular ‘unforgivable’ curses there wouldn’t be any way to reverse their effects, sufferers being forced to wait until the symptoms of over-exposure faded with time, but that would no longer be the case. There was only one problem. He had no way to test how well his healing charm would work. In hindsight Gellert could see that he should have kept Relictus alive, but it shouldn’t be too much trouble to trial his spells in a healing centre somewhere, and he was around ninety-eight percent sure that his arithmancy would work in practice. Closing his notebook with a satisfied smile, Gellert felt a sudden wave of exhaustion and could barely muster up the strength to apperate home. 

Without thinking he let his magic pull him through space, and as a consequence when he opened his eyes he was in his mother’s sitting room, not his rooms in Paris. Brow furrowed, Gellert wondered how he had avoided the Swiss-German border wards without shattering through them, but before he could come up with a plausible explanation he caught a deliciously gingery aroma wafting its way out of the kitchen. Following his nose, Gellert didn’t think to announce himself and he had quietly sat down at the kitchen table before Bathilda or his mother turned round. After his mother’s shocked screeching had died down and Gellert had got his slightly manic laughter back under control after she had eventually spotted him, he apologised and found himself wrapped in a cautious hug. It hurt how fragilely his mother was treating their relationship, but as Gellert relaxed into the familiar comfort of his mother’s arms he realised that it didn’t matter. He would rather have his mother’s tentative hug than nothing at all, and however uneasy their relationship had become, it was still far better than the Rosier’s, and he was grateful for the fact that they had got back to this point. Bathilda’s hug was much more robust, but the strikingly familiar smell of Bagshot Cottage made the bond in his chest twist painfully and he had to pull away far sooner than he’d have preferred. 

“How have you been Gellert? We’ve missed you in Godrick’s Hollow.” Asked Bathilda.  
“Excellent thank you.” It took all of Gellert’s willpower not to ask for clarification on Bathilda’s use of ‘we’, but he managed to bite down on the question, explaining the premise of his current research project at the Flamel Lab to distract himself from the burning questions that that horribly uncertain plural had invoked.  
“That sounds absolutely fascinating Gellert,” remarked his mother, and then took him entirely by surprise by asking a few very well informed questions about some of the advanced alchemy he’d been using to study his eternal flame spell.  
“How do you—”  
“I do have an alchemy mastery. I know you’re wrapped up in you’re own genius most of the time, but the rest of us aren’t entirely stupid you know.” She said, expression smug as she completely wrong-footed Gellert.  
“You have an mastery in alchemy? When did this happen? Why didn’t I know about it?”  
“Well I did have a life before you came along you see, and during those years I did many wonderful and interesting things, of which was the study for an alchemy mastery was one.” His expression must have shown his utter shock because his mother covered her face with her hands, shoulders shaking with ill-suppressed laughter.  
“Close your mouth dear,” added Bathilda with a wry smile as Gellert’s mother began to laugh in earnest, “You’ll catch flies.” 

After eating what felt like his weight in food and peppering his mother with questions concerning the part of her life she nostalgically referred to as ‘pre-Grindelwald’, Gellert apperated back to his flat in Paris, too tired to even change his clothes before falling into bed, exhausted. That night he dreamed of a road twisting through the sky and a girl’s laughter. He found himself flying and then tumbling downwards, the dream shifting as he landed on the wet stone cobbles of a Parisian alley. LAZARUS. The word had been painted white against the soot-blacked brick of the railway arches, and a young boy turned to him, a plea in his eyes. Gellert’s vision faded in and out, sepia tones overlaying the already muted colours of his vision before melting away again as the short boy reached out a hand towards the cracked brick arch, his hope sending his pulse roaring through Gellert’s mind at double time. “Lazarus, please help me.” Four words, spoked in a voice that didn’t match the boy at all, the high pitch a dead giveaway of what he was, and what he wasn’t. Gellert felt an immense wave of sadness for the muggle boy, but before he could pinpoint what part of the 'Petite Ceinture’ he was underneath the vision began to fade away into insubstantiality.

When Gellert arrived at the official duelling ground in Berlin he couldn’t help but smile. Imari, Yagana and Sasha had turned up, as well as a few of Sasha’s friends that Gellert vaguely recognised from his infrequent visits to his cousin’s place in Moscow. He made his way towards them, hoping to talk a little before the duel started, but he accidentally set foot on the violently red competition sands of the semi-final arena and as his opponent was already there, the duel had effectively commenced. He walked confidently towards the centre of the arena and smiled as his opponent mirrored his actions. She was a fair skinned witch, her riotous dark curls framing a pretty face that she seemed to be utilising as a second weapon. Luckily, Gellert was immune to that kind of attack. He shot a silent stunning charm towards her and she frowned before attempting another beguiling expression.  
“Sorry,” said Gellert, his amusement clear in his voice even as the crowd wolf-whistled and cheered, “I’m just not stunned by you’re beauty.” As he made the joke her face twisted into a flinty expression that only half-disguised her slighted pride.  
“Degenerate Sodomite.” That was an interesting response, it was really quite atypical for a witch. He let his features curl into a cruel grin as the crowd fell quiet, anxious for the fight to start.  
“Thats me sweetheart, but at least I’m not a mudblood.” He said, his voice pitched so that only she could hear, and then ducked a spell he couldn’t identify before tapping his wand against the floor. The sand wave he had created once before in the blood pits rose again, but he hadn’t accounted for the extra power the elder wand would provide, so he was as surprised as anyone else when a wall of sand six feet high raced across the duelling ground. 

His opponent wasn’t down for long, back on her feet, spitting red sand and looking murderous a few short moments later, but Gellert was ready. He had used his time wisely to draw a rough rune circle in the sand around him which would return whatever spell she threw at him to her while he went on the offensive. A hex that was barely legal on official duelling sands whistled past his head and Gellert laughed, watching with glee as it was turned against her. The reflection forced her to throw up a shield charm, and Gellert couldn't quite suppress his laughter. Hardly able to believe that a fully grown witch had only used the standard shield charm, he smiled and sent a stunning spell at her head, followed by a rapid-fire triad of disarming charms. One was aimed purposely at the shield, the other went high the same way the stunner had, and his opponent’s shield absorbed both, but the third disarming charm found its mark, hitting her right kneecap and sending her wand spinning into his hand. It was over. He had won. The cheering of the crowds was deafening, not the echoing cry of the blood wraiths in the very bowels of Paris but a thunderous roar of sound from thousands of German witches and wizards that could be heard far above, the wide blue skies of late spring vibrating with the sound. Gellert swallowed back the urge to make some sort of speech, closing his eyes as the addictive feeling of recognition flooded his veins and the commentator announced his progression to the final.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Would love some comments, you know the drill by now. 
> 
> Next chapter might take while. I've got big plans for some new characters and they deserve the very best of my literary ability, so I'm not going to rush this one. 
> 
> Happy reading, 
> 
> Frumion_III


	10. Sunlit City

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Gellert is given bad news, good news and most dangerous of all, a reason to hope. Fear stalks Gellert through Paris and magical research takes him to Italy, but will the greater good cost him the faint chance of rebuilding bridges?

“I’m going to change things Sasha, really change things.” Gellert had just knocked back his eleventh shot of some sort of pink concoction of Vodka, lemon and strawberries. He’d been getting laughed at by Yagana and the guys for his decision to try such a violently sweet drink before he had tipsily reminded them that as he had just won the semi-final duel for the German nationals, and that if they really wanted to contest his choice of drinks he would happily remind them why. Gellert threw an arm around his cousin’s shoulders and smiled lazily as he was shoved off, laughing without quite knowing why.  
“Sure you are Gel, right after you buy another round.” Replied his cousin, to the loud agreement of Imari and Yagana.  
“Don’t be silly, I’m in far too inebriated a state to do anything right now.” He replied, neatly sidestepping his cousin’s clumsy attempt to extract more drinks from him. He had already payed for three of the five rounds they’d had, and he had decided that he wouldn’t be parting with any more of his money this evening. Sasha was muttering something about family duty and Imari was laughing, the candlelight caught in his dark eyes and at the edges of his tightly curling hair as Yagana grudgingly pulled out some money, yet they seemed suddenly unreal. Gellert’s eyelids fluttered, his vision going in and out as silver lines painted themselves over the pub’s warm light until he had been blinded by them entirely. 

A cavernous white space opened up before him, the silent air completely still. Gellert couldn’t even hear his on breath, and with a start he realised that it was because he wasn’t breathing. Was he dead? Panic rose in his throat, but he couldn’t force himself to draw breath and his pulse failed to race with the fear he felt. He looked down and noticed with faint disgust that he was wearing a coarse off-white robe the colour of old parchment that had holes in it, and wondered again where he was. His feet were bare but he was neither warm or cold, and he felt as if he were about to disappear, his papery robe, pale hair and wrinkled skin almost the same colour as the strange world of pale shadow around him. Something pulled at his heart, a weak imitation of the bond that he and Albus had forged out of a fallen star what felt like a lifetime ago, but it still ached the same way, compelling him to turn. Age had weathered them both, but Albus’ smile still had that impish edge to it that he missed so much it hurt and his eyes were the same infinite kaleidoscope of blue they always had been. “Where are we?” He asked.  
“Where do you think we are?” Replied Albus, a smile in his voice as he replied, as infuriatingly cryptic as ever.  
“I don’t care.” He said, intwining their hands and pulling Albus into a hug, “You’re here.” Albus smiled softly at him, his expression warm before he faded out of existence, Gellert’s hands clutching only white ribbons before he too began to disappear. 

When he came back to himself he could feel tears tracking down his face, unable to stop them from falling, but the others were still laughing at something Imari had said, his pain unnoticed. He quickly got up, staggering a little as he made his way to the toilets. His duelling robes were still black, and though his reflection was a little frightened he was not the ghostly pale he had been in his vision, and after splashing his face with water Gellert grew a little surer that he was alive. He swallowed, the aftertaste of strawberries now sickly sweet and out of place on his tongue, and applied a glamour, watching glumly as an easy smile appeared on his face and an alcohol induced flush returned to his cheeks. He made his way back to his friends, too distracted by memories of the future to hold a proper conversation, and found himself making his excuses a few minutes later. “Don’t go, this is your celebration event. Would you really miss your own party?” whined Yagana.  
“Well it wouldn’t be the first time would it?” he joked, thinking fondly of the time when his friends had thrown a massive party to celebrate his early GZP results without asking him, and then winced at the blank faces of the people sitting around the table. Of course, none of them would understand the joke. Pushing away the strange sense of regret constricting his airways, Gellert said his final goodbyes and apperated back to the international floo port. Letting his glamours fall away as he appeared in the fireplace several floors below his rooms, Gellert slumped against a wall and tried to force himself into a better frame of mind. He had just made it to the final of the national duelling championships. It didn’t seem fair that his victorious evening had been stolen by a strangely horrifying vision. Hadn’t he already sacrificed enough for the burden of his foresight? Pushing away the petulant thought, Gellert decided that he wasn’t making sense, and far too drunk to examine his internal state, he opted out of thinking all together by traipsing up the stairs to his rooms and falling heavily onto his bed, and drifted out of consciousness without even taking off his shoes. 

Gellert was becoming more and more irritated at the hoops he would have to jump through to test his arithmantic research on the cruciatus curse. After almost two weeks of pouring over his bespelled images of Relictus’ final autopsy and tweaking his spells to better fit the damage he had seen, he had complied a journal of all the research he had done. He had sent it off to several healing societies, but no one wanted to volunteer patients for his clinical trials. Rejection letters had flown back from both the Berlin Healing Institute and the Munich Research Centre For Magical Maladies, a very strongly worded letter from the french Board Of Healing about malpractice and patient consent had crossed France off the list of research centres too, and it was enough to make his blood boil. He was offering a place in history as ‘the healing centre that helped research the biggest spell-damage advancement in the last fifty years’ and none of them could see past their over inflated egos for long enough to realise that. He was sure his spells would work, but he needed a healing centre to endorse his trialling of them, or it would never be accepted by the Healing community as a whole, and now because of some bureaucratic quibble he was being denied everywhere. This was no little counter curse that could be proved arithmantically alone, it was a revolution in the fundamental understanding of what an unforgivable caused, and he needed concrete proof if he was to go down in healing history. It riled Gellert to be ignored, to be disrespected the way same way he had been as a child which he thought he’d left behind with the voice cracks of his adolescent years, and he was very near to the limit of his patience. 

Part of the problem was his lack of formal healer’s training. He didn’t have a letter of recommendation from an established healer, so he wasn’t being considered seriously, and he was growing desperate. He had racked his brain for someone with a connection to someone in the healing profession but he kept coming up blank. Vinda had no family that she was on speaking terms with, Imari’s family were craftsmen, Yagana had refused to ask her relatives without explanation and Franz’ family were all either herbologists or tailors. Gellert had briefly considered asking the Black Family for help, as their name held no small amount of sway in British magical society, but it had seemed like an imposition to force himself back into their lives, so he had shelved the idea as a last resort. He was reaching the point where he would have to ask, despite the bad taste the thought of it left in his mouth, but he was going to put it off until he was sure he had no other options. Gellert had a sneaking suspicion that it was merely academic pride stopping his research, the healing world unwilling to admit that an outsider could be knowledgeable enough to have this much of an impact, but the causes didn’t really matter if he couldn’t prove his theory. Tucking his hair behind an ear and hoping for a stroke of inspiration, Gellert had hardly got comfortable before the floo flared green on his desk. 

It was a letter from Vinda. Stamping out the harshly glittering shards of disappointment he still felt every time a letter arrived without the distinctive handwriting he so longed to see again, Gellert unfolded the parchment and began to read. Halfway down the second side Gellert let the letter fall from his fingers, distracted. That could work. It could be the answer. Professor Mansuro was sure to know someone in professional healing. Pulling out a fresh sheet of parchment Gellert scrawled out a hopeful note to the professor before remembering how he had been treated the previous summer in The Raven’s Nest. He would need to be much more formal. Scrapping the first draft, he began again, and as soon as the ink had dried on the final lines he transfigured an ornate envelope, sealed it and carefully levitated it into the floo with a pinch of floo powder, a thought directing it towards the professor’s office in Durmstrang. Picking up Vinda’s letter from where it had fallen, Gellert read through the rest of it and felt something uncomfortably violent twist in his blood. The hand was much more uneven than previously, Vinda’s somewhat fragile ability to cope had been shattered, and she seemed desperate. As he reached the end of the letter he felt a wave of hatred almost overcome him. To say things were not their best would be a horrendous understatement. They had threatened to take away Lamellar because he’d attacked a student, when the boy had been lying in wait for her in her rooms planning merlin knew what. Gellert would kill him. It might be years before they found a way to kill the little bastard, but Vinda would have her revenge. He would make sure of it. They had threatened to take away Vinda’s familiar because the cat had tried to protect her the only way he could. It was unfathomable, it was a disgusting display of prejudice against her, and it wouldn’t be forgotten. Gellert was shaking with rage at the very idea of it being used as a threat. 

’Dearest Vinds,’ he began, scrawling his way across the page in his haste to reassure her that the end was very much in sight, ‘it won’t be long until you’re safely back in France, but until then you can make sure that Lamellar is safe.’ His list of wards and protection spells grew steadily more violent, and by the twentieth line he was half-suggesting weaving the cat a collar that would combine the worst three Egyptian tomb curses he knew into a portable ward system not unlike the one that he had woven into coat. With a satisfied smile Gellert signed off the letter and threw it in the general direction of the floo, trusting that his magic would ensure it landed in the box as he sprung off the bed, suddenly feeling the need to let off some steam. 

Breathing heavily, Gellert took a moment to push sweat soaked strings of hair out of his eyes as he threw up a shield. Curses streamed towards him in a hail of spellfire that melted away into nothingness against his spherical shield before a spell that had ruined his life twice came spinning towards him. As the white point of light that could steal his magic drew ever closer time seemed to slow down. His heartbeat sped up until he couldn’t hear anything except the blood rushing in his veins. He was frozen to the spot, memories of the shrivelled husk of what had once been a muggle, and a girl with kind eyes falling to the floor stole away his sense of calm as he tried to move. His legs had locked, his mind trapping him in the moment that had defined the end of last summer as he watched Albus’ face morph from loving to distraught again and again in his minds eye. Light was pulled from Arianna’s eyes as she fell to the floor, her face flickering in and out, replaced by a nameless muggle he had never even mourned as he stood completely still, frozen in fear. Suddenly there was no time left. There was nowhere to turn, his shields would fail and he would die. He couldn’t live without his magic. He would be nothing without his magic. Gellert summoned all of his strength, trying to force his limbs to move, but it was as if his fear had turned him to a stone. His shields glowed with power, his fear feeding the charm as he poured everything he had into the protective barrier. He felt the spell’s impact, felt the way it tried to rip apart his shields, and then he felt the way they began to ripple and weaken with the effect of the curse. For a fraction of a second it felt more stable than it had last time, the elder wand lending him strength he hadn't had last summer to keep it at bay, but even as he let himself believe that the wand’s power would save him he felt the curse begin to attack the shield once more. It wasn’t enough. He couldn’t stop it. 

In a last ditch effort he drew a deep breath in and pulled at the bond, a sickening second of nothingness lasting eons before Albus’ magic was burning through his veins once more. The sphere of light around him glowed, brilliant red-gold seeping through the natural transparency of the charm until he could barely see beyond it. The elder wand channeled their shared power, the desperation of a moment before fading away as Gellert felt the spell corrode, eaten by the magic of the shield. He was safe. Dropping the powerful shield, Gellert took careful aim and shot a simple little charm that was meant to tighten a cravat towards his opponent. How dare this toad of a man try to reduce him to squibdom? He smiled, his eyes glittering as he watched the man fall, his necktie beginning to constrict about his throat. The cavern echoed with cheering as his opponent began to panic, Gellert letting the simple charm do his work for him. Scrabbling at his throat to untie the bespelled knot, the man dropped his wand and Gellert quickly summoned it, not wanting any more surprises from this opponent before he died. If it had been a different spell Gellert would have let his opponent live, but as things stood he was still shaking with fear. The red hot tide of Albus’ magic had receded and Gellert was left cold, empty of anything except a bone deep fear that he couldn’t seem to shake. 

Gellert had no memory of leaving the fight pits, his mind consumed by the empty fear of seeing that curse again as he wondered through the streets. At some point when he had become slightly more aware of his surroundings Gellert found himself sitting on the cracked cobblestones a few streets away from one of the statues that hid magical Paris, his breath coming faster that he would like as he fought back the urge to vomit. His grip on the elder wand shaky as he sank down into a huddle, his back hitting the brick wall of an alley before he had registered the need to sit down. It was over. He needed to get himself under control. This was stupid. He repeated it to himself a few times, wondering why his body hadn’t registered the fact that the threat was gone, but before he try anything else to calm himself down an almost overwhelming glow of warmth began to echo through him. Albus. “How dare you just reach down the bond and rip my magic away from me you absolute—” began Albus, Gellert barely suppressing a flinch at the harsh tone of his voice in the cool evening air. Albus caught the half-aborted gesture, a frisson of the fear Gellert felt echoing down the bond between them, and his face crumpled. “What happened?” His question was uneven and shaky, an echo of Gellert’s own panic that was so unlike his prior statement that Gellert would have laughed if he could muster up the strength to.  
“There was a duel. It went bad. I needed you.” The force of the admission pulled the breath from his lungs, and then he standing, his arms wrapped tightly around Albus’ thin frame before he forced himself to let go, not sure that the other man would be comfortable with their proximity. 

Albus had apperated them somewhere Gellert didn’t recognise, and he couldn’t help but feel a twinge of hurt at the thought that they had grown so distant. The room was all Albus, dark stained wood and piles of books everywhere with no sense of organisation. There was an instrument balanced precariously on one corner of the desk that looked eerily familiar to Gellert, but before he could get a proper look at the strange device of gas syringes and what looked like charmed clockwork Albus had pulled him into a bittersweet embrace. Gellert smiled, the fear he had felt in a back alley of paris forgotten as he felt their bond thrumming with power, his breath coming easier now that he had something to distract himself with. It was second nature to kiss Albus, their mouths falling together as Gellert regained his sense of equilibrium, but before Gellert could lose himself in the familiar enchantment of their shared pleasure Albus pulled away. “We shouldn’t. We have to talk about what happened.”  
“Says who?” replied Gellert playfully, but Albus’ glare was enough to quell his attempt to avoid talking about the duel.  
“Was this duel at the same place where you shattered your knee?” He asked, and Gellert winced.  
“Yes?”  
“Why would you do something so monumentally stupid? You’re getting hurt for no reason.”  
“I need it.” Albus scoffed and opened his mouth to reply but Gellert didn’t give him the chance. “No Al, I do. You aren’t allowed to dictate how I deal with losing you.”  
“You bastard.” Spat Albus, “I’m trying to help you. Remember pulling me out of the ocean last November? When you stopped me from dealing with losing you however I wanted to? This is the same situation.”  
“Oh please—”  
“No, it is. Because the fear you felt tonight almost killed me. Every time you set foot in that magic-forsaken illegal duelling ring you risk both our lives, and I can’t lose you too.” Albus had started out forceful but there were tears glittering in his eyes and when he reached out to caress Gellert’s cheek there was a slight tremor in his hands.  
“Ok. I’ll stop.” replied Gellert, surprised by how much he meant the simple words. Albus kissed him softly, the touch almost searingly intimate, and Gellert felt a part of his heart that had been wrenched out of place the previous summer fall back into place. 

Hours fell away, shared glances lingering touches growing more and more common as Gellert felt hope building in his chest. As if by some unspoken agreement they steered clear of any topics that might cause an argument, their bond binding them tightly together as Albus rested his head on Gellert’s shoulder. There was something exquisitely beautiful about how relaxed Albus was, the comfortable set of his shoulders putting Gellert in mind of the endless days of the previous summer. Conversation flowed between them, the gentle physical affection warming them both as the magic tying their souls together crackled with power. The witching hour drew to a close, Albus escorting him through the floo network back to his building in a surprising display of the very english manners he had been brought up with. He turned on his heel, disapperating before Gellert could thank him for being there when he had needed him, but nothing could put a damper on Gellert’s mood. It had been worth it, feeling such overwhelming fear, for this result. He felt as if he could do anything, exhaustion and pain forgotten as every fibre of his being echoed with the magic of the bond. He had gone some way to rebuilding the bridges Arianna’s death had burnt tonight, he was sure of it. It had been slow to sink in, the realisation that Albus still cared, but the knowledge of it was humming through his blood like an enchantment, and his soul was singing. 

Weeks passed and Gellert found himself itching for a fight once more. It was the start of exam season for Vinda, so her frequent letters had petered off in recent weeks, and Albus had gone strangely silent after their shared evening. It was grating on him, this odd guilt that prevented him from visiting the duelling pits as frequently, and he was getting progressively closer to breaking his promise to Albus. After all, the duelling championship final was during the ides of August, and he had to keep practicing his martial magic somewhere in the two month interim. Before he could get any more irritable over the whole affair, Gellert was helpfully distracted by the letter sitting innocently to the left of the floo box on his desk. 

‘To Gellert Grindelwald,  
the first rate arithmantic theory you included with your letter is the only reason I have given you the courtesy of a reply. After reading the proof I couldn’t ignore you as my conscience dictated, because you’ve managed the impossible once more. We may no longer see eye to eye, but I can’t deny the simple fact that one day soon there won’t be a healer in the world who doesn’t know your name.   
I have looked into your plans for a clinical trial, and am sorry to say that not many countries will allow them. I trust you’ve already tried France and Germany, both of which would frown upon your plans, and Russia wouldn’t be any use either are they require a healer’s licence to access long term care patients, however Italy has no such restrictions on medical research.   
As luck would have it, I have a cousin who lives at Ten, Via Cimarra, in Rome whose company I think you would enjoy. His name is Ranieri Mansuro, and I have written you a letter of introduction to both him and the Italian Arithmancy Board Of Magical Research. A warning, Italian magical society is rather insular. They have their own schools, their own rich history and their own socio-political conflicts, even before you factor in muggle-magical disputes. I believe it would be wise to visit once or twice and become as proficient as possible in the language before approaching the Healing community there.   
I hope to hear about your medical innovation very soon, and wish you well in your arithmantic endeavours,   
Prof. Karim Mansuro.’ 

Italy. Gellert had read Shakespeare’s ‘Othello, The Moor Of Venice’ and loved it. ‘Julius Cesar’ was just as compelling, and Machiavelli was an old friend. Italy. The home of imperial warfare and birthplace of the first magical battle strategists. It was hard to believe that he would be going there to do medical research of all things. He had always pictured himself going to Italy to learn more about finance and battle magic, or to weed out the roots of muggle ‘Christianity’ at their source in The Vatican City, but he had never pictured this. Fear forgotten, Gellert began to make a mental list of everything he could possibly need and soon resorted to paper and ink, his mind leaping from one topic to the next t as he got caught up in the idea of new discoveries waiting to be made, far to the south where blue skies stretched forever and eons of history had forged a magical society like no other in Europe.   
Pillars of white stone strained towards the blue of the late spring sky, their reflections rippling in the clear water pouring over sandy rock into the Trevi Fountain. Indus would have loved Rome. The thought caught him by surprise, but it wasn’t accompanied by the gut wrenching twist of guilt he had come to expect when his first lover crossed his mind. It was nostalgia he was feeling, he realised, a slightly sad smile making its way onto his face as he imagined what it would have been like to come here with Indus. Despite the sad turn his thoughts had taken, Gellert count be anything but happy. He let himself marvel at the artistry of the statue he was standing before, for once taking a moment to simply appreciate what was in front of him as he imagined Indus would have. The statue was said by the muggle masses to be Neptune in all his ancient glory, but as usual they had squared three and ended up with negative two. The statue was of Maigus Lutatius Catulus, the muggleborn war general who had been the most powerful elemental mage of the ancient world. He had changed the course of the first punic war, his command of the seas notorious for centuries as the muggles forgot where his gifts had come from and successive generations of Italian wizards idolised his power. The gleaming water of the fountain called to Gellert, the rushing noise of it soothing away some of the pain emanating from the bond as Gellert turned his face towards the sun and let a simple smile stretch across his face.   
He was here alone, but somehow it didn’t matter. The fear he had felt below Paris, the sadness of what he had lost last summer, the hope he thought he could see for the future, it all seemed muted in the hot summer sun, washed away by the beauty of this great city in all its marbled splendour. He was staying in the muggle city for now, perfecting his Italian and reading up on as much history as he could before contacting the Healing enclaves below Rome. It was stunning. Gellert had never seen a city so mesmerisingly beautiful. Arches of yellowed sandstone and gleaming white marble draped the city in a net of fine stone brocade. Every place he'd visited seemed to be suspended in amber, a haze of shimmering gold toned light bringing back the honest smile he had almost forgotten his face could form. Streaming sunlight filtered through high windows in every room, the sunlight streets beyond the glass built with red brick and white stone were dreamlike in the early summer warmth.  
On his seventh day in Rome Gellert made his decision. It was about time he made use of those letters of introduction. After double checking the address of Professor Mansuro’s cousin, Gellert began to make his way across the city on foot. It took his about half an hour to reach the right street, but when he got there the cobbles of Via Cimarra were still dressed in the building’s long shadows, the warmth of the morning sun not yet making its way down to street level. He had seen almost no one, the city a ghost town in the cool early morning light, but it all seemed inconsequential. Gellert walked up to the wooden door and knocked loudly, admiring the ornate silver knocker in the shape of a strange creature. The long eared angular cat’s head had a gold disk set above it that formed the knocker, glittering eyes of amber which were angled in a way that suggested an almost eery sentience, and trailing hairs that fanned out in a lion’s mane around it’s face, and Gellert was sure he had seen the image somewhere before. He was just beginning to wonder if he ought to knock again when the door swung open. “Who the hell are you?” The disgruntled man who had answered the door was unbelievably handsome. He had darker skin than his cousin and a thinner build, but it was the magnetically dark eyes above his highly arched cheekbones and full lips that Gellert couldn’t help but stare at. The bond twinged painfully in his chest, his mouth filling with the iron taste of blood and the acidic shame of betrayal as he forced himself to laugh depreciatingly through his pain.   
“Gellert Grindelwald, arithmancer. Your cousin Karim Mansuro might have sent word about me coming?” He said, his Italian speech heavily accented but hopefully still understandable.  
“That bastard. Yeah, he mentioned something about an old student of his coming over to Italy, but I wasn’t expecting you until at least June. Why are you here?”   
“To test a medical theory based on the arithmancy of the cruciatus curse. It’s actually fascinating, because the parametric equations aren’t arithmantically circular some some of the consequences—” began Gellert, but the other man beckoned Gellert forward with a quiet laugh.   
“I am not my cousin Grindelwald, I know nothing of numbers, but I suppose you should come in either way.”   
“What do you do then?” asked Gellert. They was sitting in a room on the top floor of the building, the sunlight was streaming in through wide ivy-fringed windows and Gellert was drinking the best coffee he had ever had, so his lightly conversational tone was genuine for once.   
“I am a private lawyer. I specialised in crime pertaining to the misuse of the mind arts for my final year of study, but I’m working in magical familial law and inheritance at the moment.” Replied Ranieri, and Gellert tried to contain the countless questions pooling on the tip of his tongue, clicking the fingers of his left hand to summon paper as he pulled out a pen as he did so.   
“Could you tell me a little more about the laws around mind magic use?” he asked, and Ranieri began to laugh.   
“It’s not a light discussion Grindelwald, and you’d need to have a working knowledge in international magical law before any of it made sense.”   
“Couldn’t you explain that first then?” he asked innocently, to more laughter. Gellert bit his tongue harshly, focusing on how the metallic taste of blood filling his mouth mingled with the rich flavour of the coffee in an effort to give himself something to think about other than his growing irritation with Professor Mansuro’s cousin. He was here to redefine healing, and his old professor had offered a wonderful opportunity to find out more about Italian wizarding culture. He would not jeopardise that by being rude over something so inconsequential.   
“I studied for five years before specialising how I did. I couldn’t possibly teach you all of that in a single sitting.” Instead of the cutting remark he had almost replied with, Gellert forced his face into an unassuming smile and changed the topic to the magical history of Italy. 

Looking dubiously down what appeared to be a dead end alley, Gellert double checked the parchment Ranieri had written the directions down on and cast a point me spell. This was the right place after all. He had written a letter to the Italian Arithmancy Board Of Magical Research, but as his actual research was medical he and Ranieri had decided that it would probably be best if he went directly to the healers. Gellert had thought it was more efficient, and Ranieri had agreed on the course of action, though for vastly different reasons. Italian healers were famous for jealously guarding healing discoveries, and would reportedly have been put out had he met with the arithmancers first. Gellert walked towards the end of the alley and smiled at what he assumed was a quaint muggle orange garden before returning to his search for the entrance to the Rome Institute For Healing and Medical Research. Casting another subtle ‘point me’ charm, Gellert was surprised to be following his wand towards the gnarled orange tree at the centre of the grove. It was a hulking ancient tree, its many bows weighed down by the multitude of small under-ripe oranges clustering amid the glossy green leaves. The trunk of the tree was split in two, each trunk separating at ground level, forming a doorway and twisting together in an elaborate natural arch about a meter above Gellert’s head. In a flash Gellert understood how to cross through to the magical healing centre, and he stepped through the tree’s arch and into another world. 

Gellert had had the good fortune to have spent very little time in magical hospitals over the years, and though part of him was cataloguing the strong smell of anti-septic magic and bright lighting for future reference he was mostly focused on finding the Healer trainee that had been assigned as his guide for the first few days. Spotting a young man only a little older than him in what looked like official forest green robes, Gellert made his way across the bustling lobby towards him with a smile and introduced himself. “The German, right?” Asked the man, and Gellert laughed.  
“That’s me. And you are?”  
“Oh, yes, introductions. I tend to forget those. Sorry. My name is Bartolomeo Cesarii.” Said the man. He spoke very fast, and his words curled with a very distinct accent that Gellert wasn’t quite sure was unusual, but that sounded distinctly different from the muggle voices Gellert had heard native to the city.  
“Forgive me if it is rude of me to ask, but you are not from Rome, are you?” He asked, and Bartolomeo laughed loudly, attracting several glances that ranged from curious to highly disapproving.  
“No. I forget that my accent wouldn’t be so easily recognised for a non-Italian wizard. I’m from Otranto on the south-eastern tip of Italy. It’s really lovely in the south, and Otranto is right on the coast. I went to Janara School Of Magic, and I probably would have gone into herbology if it hadn’t been for this one really fantastic professor who inspired me to study Healing instead. I’m in my fourth year of the seven required for Healer’s training, what do you do?” The entire speech had been offered without cause, and Gellert was having to utilise his best mask to stop himself from laughing out loud. This was a man that could out-speak an Augurey in a rain storm if he tried hard enough. He almost asked Bartolomeo is he had to use a charm to get enough oxygen into his lungs to keep talking for such long stretches without pause, but thought better of antagonising his guide. Gellert was just going to ask Bartolomeo more about magical education worked in Italy when his wand suddenly erupted into red sparks. “Ah Cazzo.” said the talkative man bitterly, and set off at a run.  
“I’ll assume that means something impolite,” said Gellert with a grin as he hurried to keep up, “Where are we going?” 

They raced up three flights of stairs and down a long white corridor, stopping when they reached door forty-six of the ward. Gellert had caught some of the man’s explanation of the patient they were headed towards but he had missed most of it, so when he followed Bartolomeo into the room he had no ida what he would see. Instead of a diagnostic web flashing warnings everywhere, or a diseased corpselike figure slumped in the bed, Gellert came face to face with a man who couldn’t have been more than twenty-eight who looked perfectly healthy. He was sitting very still on the edge of the bed, facing the door with a quietly contemplative expression as if waiting for some trivial news. His black hair was worn ear length and messy in defiance of the generally more sober style of most Italian wizards Gellert had seen so far, his fine clothes out of place on a simple hospital ward. The black pinstripe suit was offset by the very casual white shirt the man was wearing beneath it, the top three buttons undone to reveal blooming hickies that trailed down the length of the man’s neck. Bartolomeo began to ask what Gellert suspected were cursory Healing questions, as the man seemed to answer them with singular boredom, eyes glassy until he happened to look towards the door and see Gellert. “Who are you?” he asked, leaving the fourth question half answered.  
“Now I’m afraid you’ll have to answer my—” began Bartolomeo, but the strange man was having none of it.  
“Just copy out the answers I gave you the last six times you asked me those exact questions Southerner, it’s not as if they’ve changed. Now tell me, who are you?” He said, his acidic tone completely vanishing as he turned his attention back to Gellert.  
“My name is Gellert Grindelwald. I’m an arithmancer. What about you?” he asked, wondering if he were imagining the way this man seemed to look right through him.  
“Adriano Ostilli, dancer, duellist and medical specimen at your service. You may call me Adriano.” 

Wrong footed by the unfamiliar word, Gellert racked his brain for the meaning of ‘campione’, pausing for longer than was probably acceptable before he remembered that it was the male form of the Italian ‘specimen’  
“You are not the type of specimen I need I’m afraid, but it’s been nice to meet you all the same.” he replied with a laugh, not knowing if it would be considered improper to ask a patient what was wrong with them without invitation.  
“Not looking for an addict then?” Joked the man, and Gellert started, then smiled.  
“You’re not an addict Ostilli, you have merely built up a tolerance to calming and pain relief potions.” cut in Bartolomeo with a frown.  
“That can happen? How many were you taking?” asked Gellert, his incredulity ruining the impression of professionalism he’d been attempting. Adriano laughed as Bartolomeo threw him a scandalised look before ushering him towards the door.  
“It’s fine, I like him. He is welcome to stay and talk.” There was a subtle cruelty dancing in Adriano’s eyes, and Gellert suspected that he had only objected to Gellert leaving to be contrary. “We have much in common.” The last was directed at Gellert, who met the man’s eye searchingly only to gasp. While one half of each eye was a deep brown that bordered on black which seemed to be the norm here, there was a jagged line across each iris, the other half shining like a newly minted Italian copper sestertius coin in the half light of the room. As Adriano had spoken Bartolomeo’s wand erupted into red sparks again and the healer shot him a very odd look before nodding to the two of them and leaving the room at a run. 

“You are a very powerful seer. I can see it shimmering from your eye, but that is by far the least interesting thing about your magic.” Said Adriano once the Healer’s footsteps had faded away into silence.  
“You can see my seer sight?” Asked Gellert, and Adriano laughed.  
“I can see many things Gellert, may I call you Gellert?” at a nod the man continued, a smile playing about his mouth once more before he spoke again, “Your seer sight, your magic, the power of the wand you hold and that interesting bit of magic binding you to someone far from here. All those threads of starlight and blood and promises that tie your soul to another's. So brave, the two of you, to make that kind of irreversible promise. I can see magic in it's purest form when it is that powerful. It shines.” It was impossible. Gellert’s knee jerk reaction was denial, but how else would this stranger know about the bond. Gellert paused, the scraps of what he knew about the strange Italian stitching themselves into a patchwork as he began to theorise about Adriano’s unique power.  
“I’m sorry about earlier. If I’d known you were taking calming drafts for this I wouldn’t have been as hasty with my words. It’s perfectly understandable that you would become dependant on potions.” He said, distracted, before he gave in to the temptation and pulled out a notebook. “Would you mind explaining what magic looks like to you?”  
“I do not want to be cured of this Gellert.” Said Adriano darkly. “It is a part of me.”  
“Is that what they want you to do? Merlin, I’d never dream of taking away an ability like yours. It would be a crime against magic.” Shocked by the wave of anger that had risen within him, Gellert smiled at the relieved look on the other man’s face.  
“You see far more of than the healers here then. Are all German healers like you?”  
“There’s no one like me,” He began, cocksure and arrogant before admitting the truth of it. “Besides, I’m not a healer.” Adriano laughed, strange eyes flashing with mirth, and asked waspishly what the hell Gellert thought he was doing taking notes on hospital patients if he weren't a healer. “I am an arithmancer, and I’m here to prove a theory that will change the world.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The chapter got too long so I had to split it into two. As a result, this was more of a preview for the new characters than an actual introduction to them, so sorry about that. I hadn't meant to write in another fight scene but suddenly it was there and I couldn't seem to stop the plot unspooling from there, so here we are. 
> 
> Would be interested to hear your thoughts as always, so leave a comment.  
> Happy reading,  
> Frumion_III


	11. Renown and Reunion

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Gellert proves that his healing spells will work, learns a little more about wizarding Italy, makes the acquaintance of a very useful English muggleborn and finally sees Vinda again at long last.

Before walking onto the ward, Gellert cast a translation spell, not wanting to be caught out by an Italian phrase he didn’t know yet, and put on his best healer’s smile. After taking a moment to make sure his charms were in working order, Gellert turned the handle of the doorknob, the manic excitement he felt carefully concealed. Gellert had permission to do his experiments in Rome, and here he was. Ranieri had organised all of it through a third party over the last week, but they had decided it would be impolite if Gellert preceded without presenting the theory he would be testing to the directors of the Italian Healer’s Association. He had done that yesterday, polite even in the face of a shocking lack of arithmantic ability, bored by the slow drag of the minute hand around the clock’s face as he had presented his theory and explained how it would work to an audience who were so busy trying to look like they understood what he was talking about during the spell creation section that they didn’t even blink when he concluded with a warning about potential loss of life. The room held a strange sadness, four of the five figures in the white beds moving in jitters and twitches as they relived the torture that had stolen their chance at normal lives in their sleep. Spells shimmered around them, from basic pain relief charms around one bed to the much more extensive nexus of spells required to keep one of the more severely damaged victims stable. 

“Try that one first.” Said Nedrus, the rather skeptical healer that was accompanying Gellert who oversaw the spell damage ward. “We selected him for you as an initial test subject. His wife agreed to take off the charms keeping him alive next week if his condition doesn’t improve, so he’s all yours.” Gellert blanched internally, wondering how anyone could be so callous while fighting to keep any kind of judgement off his face. This was a golden opportunity, he reminded himself, and he shouldn’t be letting himself feel for his test subject in the first place. It would only make a mistake more likely.   
“What’s his damage?” asked Gellert, his voice startlingly cold in an attempt to remain professional about the patient.   
“Non-responsive muscles, non-responsive digestion, non-responsive respiratory system and non-responsive retina testing.” replied Nedrus easily, as if he hadn’t just admitted that the poor man was so badly damaged that the only reason he was breathing at all was that there was a spell pushing air into his lungs at regular intervals. Gellert swallowed, not wanting to imagine what it would be like to be reduced to something like this, a husk of a wizard kept out of death’s waiting embrace by only the thinnest of threads, and rolled up his sleeves. Checking his notes for a final time, he took a deep breath, shook off his anxiety and prepared to cast the first spell. 

The door opened behind him and Gellert jumped, the potency of his new spell that had been simmering in his blood fading away as he registered what was happening. He had most definitely not been expecting a gaggle of Healers to file into the room, but a half smile made its way onto his face as they did. There was an audience this time, and they would be there to watch him make history. Nedrus scowled at them fiercely, and Gellert was just settling in to watch the dressing down they seemed to be about to get when the door opened again and healer’s in the same colour robes as Nedrus began to crowd in as well.   
“I take it you’ve heard about the procedure?” He asked, and a very tall bespectacled woman with iron grey hair pulled into a stiff bun blinked at him for a moment before smiling strangely.   
“All of the non essential personnel are here to watch. You said it yourself young man, this could change the direction of healing all together.” Gellert managed a nod and bit his lip, suddenly feeling a rush of happiness and warmth pour down the bond that felt as if it had been pushed. A small smile crossed his face, Gellert secretly pleased that Albus had used the bond to offer his help, even if he didn’t know the exact circumstances of Gellert’s prior nerves.   
“Could all of you take several steps back, while I undo the healing nexus around him.” said Gellert, phrasing his order as a question and smiling as the Italians shuffled back, a few of the younger ones looking as giddy as he had felt walking in. Allowing himself to spend a second simply feeling the warm calm Albus had given him, Gellert breathed deeply and began to cast. 

He didn’t bother with unpicking the spell chains of the web keeping his patient stable, simply connecting the strands of the magic to the elder wand and pulling the power out of the spell with a thought. As the patient began to destabilise Gellert cast his own monitoring spells before beginning properly. “Arctus Primus Sanare.” He said, the spoken words humming with power in the cool sanitised air of the long term spell damage ward. The patient began to shake, but soon the worst of the spell’s effects were passed, and Gellert could feel that it had taken hold as magic began to flow through him and into the musculature of the patient’s lungs and throat, healing the broken connections at every nerve. There was a tense moment of silence before the man took a shuddering breath in, unaided, for the first time since his torture, and Gellert felt a rush of dizzying joy at the sight. In the distance Gellert could hear someone clapping, but it all faded in and out like one of his insubstantial visions, his mind lost in the enormity of what he had managed. The first spell had been a success. “Arctus Secondus Sanare.” He spoke, his tone betraying the sheer glee he felt, and again magic poured from him in a careful flow, reconnecting the digestive tissues to their broken nerves and smiling more widely as his magic flowed into the broken man, the spell’s effects falling into place the same way the first spell’s had.

“Arctus Sextus Sanare.” It took a moment, but ever so slowly the man’s body began to curl inwards, eventually stilling in a piteous foetal position that shied away from the world as if instinctively afraid of more pain. The patient’s face was still eerily blank as a shaking arm moved closer to his chest, and Gellert felt a strange sadness, the sweet elixir of his success tainted by the obvious damage still wreaking havoc on the wizard he had helped. The awed silence was broken by one of the students, who must have walked up behind Gellert while he was watching the man on the bed begin to move.   
“Can I have your autograph Healer?” Gellert pushed down his initial surprised laughter and allowed a wide smile to cross his face.   
“But of course.” He said, clicking his fingers to remove one of the blank pages of his notebook. The woman must have been a few years older than him but there was nothing but respect for his magic in her eyes and Gellert began to savour his victory properly. It didn’t matter that he had been sure it would work, it didn’t matter that he had done every arithmantic check he could think of, the taste of victory was just as sweet as ever on his tongue. He had done the impossible again. He signed the paper with a flourish, hands still shaking with the rush of doing what he had. The bold young healer had opened the floodgates it seemed, and Gellert found himself shaking hands with almost everyone in the room dressed in trainee’s or healer’s robes.   
“You’ve changed things forever Grindelwald.” Said a greying healer, his horn-rimmed glasses flashing as he spoke, but Gellert didn’t have time to respond before other voices were clamouring in agreement. It was beautiful. Gellert had had respect before, had been congratulated for his arithmancy and duelling prowess, but this felt deeper somehow. These healers were not just impressed, they had watched him change their entire field, and their response was a kind of reverent awe. It hummed through his skin, his pulse jumping erratically as he suppressed a smile that might have been a little out of place in a healing ward and let himself revel in the feeling of being held in such esteem. He felt his adrenaline and joy spilling down the bond towards England, not pausing to wonder how Albus would interpret the emotions he was flooding the bond with as he was swept into an impromptu lecture on the arithmancy behind his spell set. 

Deciding to visit Adriano before he left the hospital for the day, Gellert extracted himself from the healers and made his way towards the ward he had ended up in the day before. Adriano had been fascinating, and Gellert wasn’t about to let an opportunity like him slip through his fingers. When they had met the day before the other man had questioned Gellert’s avid interest in his strange abilities, pointing out that Gellert himself had a fair few rare magical talents, but he had seemed more amused than hostile. A rather macabre sense of humour complimented the unique skill set Gellert was so eager to research, and Gellert had readily agreed to meet him and the girlfriend he brought up so consistently in conversation, for drinks at some point in the near future, wondering if he sounded as besotted as Adriano when he talked about Albus. Reaching the private room where they had met, Gellert knocked softly, wondering if Adriano would object should he bring Vinda along for drinks, as she would be back home by the time Adriano was out of hospital and Gellert thought she would love Rome. “What is it?” Came a grumbled response from within. “It had better not be that incompetent Bartolomeo again. If it is you can take your questions and shove them right up— oh, hello Gellert.”   
“Bartolomeo driving you mad is he?” asked Gellert with a feigned look of concern.   
“Not for much longer, I promise you that.” he replied, startling a laugh out of Gellert. Yes, he thought to himself as he got comfortable in the cushioned armchair by the bed, Vinda and Adriano would get along like a house on fire. The two simply had to meet. 

Gellert’s distracted musing was interrupted as a flurry of feathers at the window preceded a loud thud, a letter shooting through the open window and speeding straight for him as it’s messenger picked itself up, shook its head and flapped away. Caught off guard, his hand had twitched towards the elder wand before he registered what the projectile was, and now, feeling more than a little silly, Gellert summoned the letter with a thought to have a closer look. Distracted by examining the official looking parchment, Gellert didn’t notice the look Adriano shot at him at his casual use of wandless magic, too irritated by the contents of the letter to remain aware of his surroundings. The other finalist in the German nationals had apparently ingested Volatis Proprii, whatever that was, and would still be in surgery recovery when their fight had been scheduled. “Typical.” he muttered folding up the letter and putting it into one of his pockets before turning his attention back towards the other person in the room.   
“What happened?” Asked Adriano, and when Gellert explained the aggravating circumstances brought about by the other finalist’s untimely sickness, he scoffed loudly.   
“I reacted just the same way when the inter-school tournament took place in my seventh year. My opponent had thoughtlessly got himself into a flying accident and I couldn’t take part in the end.” Curious, Gellert asked more about the competition. It sounded rather like a small-scale version of the notorious tri-wizard tournament that had been banned for around a century, and Gellert was intrigued by the odd prejudices the divisive school system had created within Italy. 

“So is that why you have such little regard for Bartolomeo?” asked Gellert later, the flow of the conversation illuminating a little more of why the two of them clashed so often, and why the southern wizard had seemed so defensive about where he was from when he had been showing Gellert around.  
“Of course, it’s no surprise that he can’t remember my answers, being what he is, but it’s aggravating with way I have to repeat myself so often. Perhaps I should speak a little slower in future, what do you think?”   
“If your aim is to offend, I have no doubt that it will work wonders.” Replied Gellert dryly as he privately wondered how Bartolomeo kept up his professional attitude when so many seemed to underestimate him. It was so illogical a thing to disrespect someone for, simply because he had attended Janara in the south, rather than the two schools that regularly produced Healers, the Italian wizard was seen as lesser. Gellert rather thought that the fact Bartolomeo had gone to a lesser school showed that his skills were a product of natural talent, and therefore deserving of more respect that the average healer. If it had been Gellert he would have broken the healer’s oath of non-maleficence in a heartbeat, unable to stand the constant condescension Bartolomeo seemed to face, and Gellert could only admire the wizard’s indomitable spirit. Gellert kept his dissentient opinions to himself and the conversation soon shifted back towards their respective magical gifts as the hot sun sank towards the western horizon. 

Gellert couldn’t stop smiling. It was almost two weeks since he had proved that his spell worked and an article on his spell set had come out in the Italian newspapers a few days before. He had interviews scheduled for the German and French papers over the next few weeks, as well as an award of some sort from the Italian Healing Board, but best of all Vinda would be coming home from Durmstrang in a few short hours. Word of his success had spread through the wizarding world with flattering speed, the proud healers of Rome passing on the news that it was in their city that history had been made, and his friend had agreed to meet up with him in Rome for the evening before they made their way back to Paris together. He had missed Vinda more than he could put into words, and could hardly wait for her return. Despite his mounting excitement, the world hadn’t accommodated his impatient mood, so on a morning which would otherwise have been spent wishing away the time, he had found himself flooing to London for an interview with someone from the daily prophet, the most widely read British magical newspaper. Initially he hadn’t been at all sure that he wanted to venture back across the channel, and the timing was especially inconvenient, but the chance to stick it to St Mungoes Hospital that he’d succeed was too tempting to pass up, and a public interview seemed like a good way to do it. 

He pointedly didn’t glance towards the transfiguration rooms to see if Albus was there, making his way straight to the cluster of blue toned armchairs that made up the more social area of The Raven’s Nest where he had agreed to meet this English reporter. This was his first major public appearance in the British wizarding world, and it had to be perfect. If he came across as too vain or condescending, or revealed too much about the less legal steps of his creation process it would be weaponised, used against him by those who would inevitably resist the necessary global change Gellert stood for. Deciding on a mask to present for the public had been difficult, but he had decided on appearing a little outspoken concerning the ethics of the British healing community which, after all, had refused to trial a spell that he had now proved would work, and a little self depreciating in regards to his healing talents, but above all else he had to come across as sufficiently ‘light’. Gellert had been offered a unique opportunity to shape how the wider British public saw him that he had no intention of wasting. He would have to be careful.

“Mr Grindelwald?” The man who had spoken was a little shabby, Gellert noted as he nodded, the worn tailcoat he wore rather cheaply bespelled to appear smarter than it actually was and his shoes black, perfectly shiny and falling apart under their glamour. They looked almost new, but Imari had mentioned in passing during their last encounter that there were clear differences in gait between those with well made shoes and those without, and looking at the reporter, Gellert could see it. This was a man who desperately wanted to appear as if he had money, but did not. The only exception to this poorly disguised poverty was an ornate quill, the deep burgundy plume’s gold nib embossed with a delicate rune network that, from what Gellert could see at least, formed the basis of some very complicated charms that responded to their environment and the reporter’s magic. The man looked worried, no doubt concerned with writing an article that would sell, as he evidently needed the money, the quill hovering behind him in a similar state of nerves. Gellert snapped his fingers, summoning a second chair to the table he had chosen, very conscious of the power imbalance it would establish in his favour. “Please, take a seat. I’ll summon us a fresh pot of tea before we start.” he said, setting the man a little more at ease while playing the magnanimous host, keeping a tight grip on control of the conversation.   
“It would be a pleasure Mr Grindelwald.”   
“Gellert, please.” There was a slight pause as he summoned all the necessaries that constituted a proper English tea set, grateful that Bathilda had talked him through it the year before in an effort to explain why Albus was taking so long over making tea for the three of them, and then the reporter found his voice at last and introduced himself. 

After allowing the conspicuously muggle named Thomas Williams to take a seat with a disarming smile, internally pleased that he had been allocated so malleable a reporter, Gellert gestured for the other man to speak. “Before we begin properly, I’d like to know a little about you. Where did your inspiration to study healing come from?” began the man, leaning forwards as the red quill seemed to vibrate with energy, poised above the blank parchment floating at the man’s left elbow.   
“Oh, I don’t, study healing that is. I’m an arithmancer.”  
“How long have you been studying arithmancy then, if not healing?”   
“I’ve been published and, not to put too fine a point on it, rather well known, in arithmancy since 1897. It’s a crime that the subject is so undervalued by the wizarding world.”  
“But you can’t have been more than fifteen then.” exclaimed the man, his shock evident, and Gellert smiled.   
“I was actually first published in 1895, the summer before I turned fourteen, but I wasn’t well known until my proof for the fourth dimension in 1897. But enough about my past, surely you’d rather hear about my most recent spell set.” he said, not meaning it in the least but wanting to appear at least a little humble. Just as he had predicted, the other man was a little more interested in hearing about his early life. Gellert managed to divert the conversation when it got a little too personal, not wanting to discuss his family life with the press, and began to talk more openly about the reforms he would like to see in healing. “Well I had some trouble joining the Healing community actually,” he began, hiding a smile as he stirred the hornet’s nest of public opinion up against St Mungoes, “I had to travel to Rome to test my spell set because there was very little trust for a non-healer across the rest of Europe, but I’d like to think that after next week, when my proof will be released in healing journals across the world, I’ll have earned that trust.”   
“I for one, would offer you that trust Gellert, and wish you the best in winning over the healers.” Thomas had officially been won over, it seemed, and Gellert breathed a sigh of relief. 

They had spent most of the morning talking about Healing, arithmancy, ethics and the many links between them, as well as some lightly personal subjects, and the reporter looked exhausted, his odd quill drooping as he stacked the pages of notes he had accumulated together and tucked them into his bag with a smile. Gellert released the slight compulsions he had cast on the reporter, a cautionary attempt to make sure he was portrayed how he wanted to be, and stood up to leave. Thomas had been the perfect wizard to write this article, exactly the sort of person Gellert would have picked himself if he’d had the choice, he thought as they shook hands. Almost certainly muggleborn, easily led, passionate and young. He might have the ear of the British public in a few years, which would be useful if Gellert could keep him loyal, and he was in an excellent position to do so now. “It was lovely to meet you Thomas,” he said, eyes smiling as the reporter echoed his sentiments. “If it isn’t an imposition, could I ask for your address? I’d like to keep in contact.”   
“Yes of course, but why would you—” began the man, and Gellert smiled, wondering who had crushed this man’s self esteem so thoroughly in the past, before he interrupted.   
“Because if I’m ever breaking news again I’d like you to cover it, and because I can recognise talent when I see it.” It worked like a charm, and Gellert smiled. Vinda would be proud of quite how adept he was becoming at the subject of people, he thought to himself with a quiet laugh, and raised a hand in farewell as Thomas turned away. 

He felt a sudden glow of warmth, the only warning he got before that smile filled his vision. Albus looked absolutely stunning, the deep green shirt making him almost ethereally beautiful as he stood in the doorway, laughing at what someone Gellert couldn’t see had said. Their eyes met, the room falling away as Albus’ face flickered with half a dozen emotions before he squared his shoulders and walked towards Gellert, an uncertain smile on his lips, but before he could say a word Gellert was distracted by the leaving reporter’s curious glance. That was an interesting development, but he had carefully crafted a mask for this interview and Albus could bring all of his careful work crashing down with a few words if he chose to. All things considered, Gellert didn’t necessarily want his past with Albus to end up in the prophet, so he offered a final wave to Williams, who ducked his head respectfully before heading out of the door, clearly recognising the dismissal for what it was. 

“Hey.” As beginnings of conversations went, it was inauspicious, but Gellert somehow didn’t mind because it was Albus. How could he mind? It was leagues better than what might have happened. What probably would have happened if they hadn’t shared that oddly intimate evening before Gellert had gone to Italy.  
“Hey.”   
“What are you doing back in London?”   
“I’ve actually just given an interview for The Daily Prophet.” said Gellert, not a little smug. “But I’ll spare you the details, after all we wouldn’t want to spoil the surprise.” He added, knowing full well what not knowing something would do to Albus. True to form, the other man protested, and after a token resistance Gellert broke down and told him.   
“That’s fantastic Gellert.” exclaimed Albus, the tense set of his shoulders relaxing as he invited Gellert back to his new flat for the evening. A delighted smile made its way onto his face, but as he open his mouth to agree Gellert remembered Vinda. He should be there when she got home. A very loud part of him was trying to make the argument that she would understand his absence, but Gellert knew her too well to really believe that. She would be hurt by his betrayal, and he couldn’t do that to her after everything she had done for him. 

“I’m sorry Al, but I can’t.” he said, wincing at how Albus’ face became harsh and closed off at his refusal, hurt echoing down the bond even as Gellert watched Albus force the feeling into the guise of anger.   
“I’m sorry for waisting your time then.” he said with a tight smile, and Gellert caught his arm, spinning Albus back towards him and forcing eye contact.   
“You will never be a waste of my time. Could we meet up this time next week instead?” He asked, hopeful, and the warmth that bloomed in his chest brought a genuine smile to his face.   
“Of course.” The memories of last summer were summoned to the forefront of Gellert’s mind in a flash of warmth at the easy response, Albus’ smile the same dazzling one he remembered from that first kiss on Tower Bridge. Maybe Albus had finally begun to see things more clearly. “What are you doing this evening then? If not spending time with me.” Albus wasn’t quite able to contain the slightly acidic jealousy in his voice, and Gellert smiled internally, the possessiveness sending sparks down his spine.   
“Vinda’s coming home today.” he said simply, and Albus’ whole demeanour changed. The jealousy of a moment before evaporated, a slight smirk forming on his face before he responded.   
“Ah, Vinda. If I didn't have very compelling evidence to the contrary, I’d believe you were in love with her.”   
“It is lucky then, that you have your evidence. I’d hate for you to draw the wrong conclusions.” Gellert sniped back, laughter dancing in his eyes as he marvelled at the light barbs they were exchanging. It was as if the last year had melted away in Albus’ memory. 

They ended up talking for hours in the raven’s nest, Gellert expanding more on his recent discoveries in Healing and getting reacquainted with the only mind equal to his own as Albus shared his own recent research, something on the uses of dragons blood which sounded fascinating. Gellert couldn’t take his eyes off the other man, the crooked nose and slightly more angular face still not something he was used to, but his eyes shone with the same fire they had last year, and Gellert’s magic was singing with their proximity. Somehow the hours melted away and it was only a stray beam of sunlight glancing through the window in a gold line of light that reminded him of the time. Realising with a start that he would be late if he didn’t hurry, Gellert bid Albus a hasty goodbye and apperated away. The bond was still humming with the power of their meeting, and perhaps because they had parted without animosity for the first time in the better part of a year, it hurt far less that usual when he stepped through the fireplace and into the hot Italian evening. 

A floor length dress of pale green that probably cost a fortune made Vinda more beautiful that ever, and Gellert couldn’t help but wonder from where she had procured it, given their current financial circumstances. Her trunks floated through the fireplace behind her, unnoticed by either of them as they shared the sly smile of co-conspirators reunited. Lamellar was draped around Vinda’s shoulders, a lazy paw digging into her robes for stability as she dropped her bags and ran at Gellert, arms wide in an uncharacteristic open display of affection. He laughed and returned her hug, thinking with a smile that only Vinda could possibly improve the wonderful day he’d just had, and heard Lamellar begin to purr loudly.   
“Vinds, It’s been too long.” He said, his voice slightly muffled as he tried to avoid getting her hair or Lamellar’s fur in his mouth as he spoke.   
“It certainly has. We have a lot to catch up on.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello Hello Hello. 
> 
> It's been a while but I am BACK, and the next update will be relatively soon. I do feel a little guilty for leaving you all in the lurch, as it were, for so long, but I'm officially back for a bit. I make no promises, but there should be several updates before 2020 begins, and then very VERY few until the summer. I have exams, he results of which affect my future significantly, so this will have to take a back seat. However long I leave it I promise that it's not abandoned (and that I haven't died) but man's gotta pass his exams. Sorry. 
> 
> As to the chapter, I'm always happy to hear your thoughts, and I would like to direct you all to the wonderful Highly_Illogical 's page because a lot of the details of Italian Wizarding life, particularly the school system, are her's in origin. As an Englishman, I thought it best that I consult with an Italian on what magical life would be like in Rome before writing about it in depth, and she's been great. 
> 
> Leave a review, give it a read, all that jazz. 
> 
> Happy reading,  
> Frumion.


	12. The Very Best Of Witches

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Vinda comes home, tells Gellert about a new branch of mind magic she has developed, brings to light a painful truth and accepts him unconditionally, flaws and nonsensicalities included.

As they walked through the streets of Rome Gellert catalogued the little changes he could see in his friend, wondering idly if she was doing the same for him. Her hair was shorter, no longer brushing her shoulders in the styled wave of the previous year. Vinda had charmed a sleek curl into place, the ends of her hair just brushing her jaw and framing her face in an entirely new way, the high collar of her new robes accentuating the change, but easily the most noticeable difference was in the way she smiled. The brittle edges of the expression had been sanded down, the smile less cruel and far softer than it had been in years, and Gellert was burning to ask why. They had been in Rome for the better part of a week but what with one thing and another there hadn’t been an appropriate moment to do so. “You seem so much better than you did during the winter.” He began.  
“I’m done with school. Done with Durmstrang. I never have to look at an exam paper again—” she began, but at that moment Gellert spotted Adriano. Vinda followed his line of sight, her expression shifting back into what Gellert privately thought of as her most curated mask. The warmth of a moment before drained away to be replaced by a slightly different smile, but it was not the lurching shift that he remembered. There was still warmth in her eyes, the politician’s smile not as cold as he remembered it. Vinda was in control of the change. Adriano was leaning back against a wall outside the restaurant where they had agreed to meet, face half obscured by the shroud like tresses of his partner’s long black hair as she took his mouth in a claiming kiss. “We seem to be interrupting the two of you,” said Gellert, amused that this was how his deeply skeptical friend would meet Adriano. True to form, Vinda had let out a sharp bark of laughter at his words, no doubt considering Gellert’s nicety a staggering understatement. “Perish the thought, we can continue that later.” said Adriano with a rather lewd smile. Gellert was vaguely uncomfortable, and Vinda had noticed, amused to see Gellert suffering the same discomfort he had repeatedly inflicted upon her over the course of their friendship. 

The woman untangled herself from her lover and shifted slightly so that she could look at the two of them properly, a slightly off-putting smile forming on her face as she did so. Gellert noticed a skull shaped fastening on her left shoulder, the odd black robes she wore more reminiscent of a toga than usual witchwear. Though her eyes were fixed on Gellert, it was clear from her body language that she was still very much focussed on Adriano, their hands laced together comfortably as introductions were exchanged.   
“This is Vinda, the very best of witches.” began Gellert.   
“And before you ask,” Vinda added, eyes hardening for a moment in a glare, “No, we are not a couple.”   
“You don’t look like one.” The pale woman said, her laughter strangely reminiscent of a funeral dirge even as her eyes sparkled, swimming with secrets in the half light of the evening. She was leaning against Adriano’s upper body as he toyed with her hair, and Gellert took a moment to observe the two of them together as Imari might have. She was very pale, the rouge painting her lips only serving to highlight the unusual pallor of her skin as she smiled, tucking her hair back behind an ear as she levelled an assessing gaze at him.  
“Well I’m glad someone’s finally noticed.” said Vinda, a half smile that was almost warm forming on her face as she caught Gellert’s eye. She had judged the two Italians and those first sentences, spoken and heard, had decided their fate. They would be at the heart of things. “Gellert, Vinda,” Began Adriano again, pulling Gellert out of his musings, “Please allow me to introduce Reverentia Addamus, my better half and bonded partner. Re, this is the other seer I was telling you about.”   
“A pleasure,” replied Gellert, and Reverentia smiled at him, eyes flashing a warm yellow before the strange colouration faded back into the deep black of a moment before.   
“Yes, I believe it is.” 

Vinda steered the conversation masterfully, putting the couple at ease by asking about the three Italian Wizarding schools, their rivalry sounding as bitter as the four Hogwarts houses Albus had spoken of so often last summer. It all seemed strange to Gellert, but he was enjoying himself too much to raise a point about the inanity of it all. Vinda had expressed the opinion that their competition would produce the best in the students, an idea that Gellert recognised as Machiavellian in origin, and had no idea if Vinda really believed. She had soon managed to spark off a lighthearted argument about Italian magical schooling, and as Gellert found himself drawn into the back and forth between the couple he caught Vinda’s eye. Her lips twitched minutely, and he fought to contain his own laughter at the passion with which Adriano and Reverentia were bickering, their points each laughed away by the other as if the exchange had happened a hundred times before. It was oddly intimate, and Gellert felt almost as if he and Vinda were eavesdropping on a private moment, the other two were so wrapped up in each other. 

From what Gellert could make of their barbed exchanges, Adriano had come from Giubiana Wizards' Institute in the north. Reverentia teased her lover a little as he began to explain why the north’s schooling was the superior to a bemused Gellert and Vinda, pointing out that all roads led to Rome, but the smile with which she made the joke couldn’t have been mistaken as cruel by a blind muggle. They loved each other so much it hurt, and it left Gellert with a strange sense of longing. All at once Gellert felt the loss of his own lover as if it were a fresh wound, and the bond in his chest twinged in response. With a rush of feeling, joy tinged with worry spiralled into his chest as Albus felt the echo of his melancholy. His mouth tasted sickly sweet, the flavour of the strange lemon sweets Albus had always favoured thick on his tongue, but before he could savour the reminder of Albus’ kisses Adriano spoke again. “It’s beautiful.”   
“What?”   
“I saw the bond in your chest flare. Your magic shifted somehow, I can’t quite describe it, but it was as if there were a glow of gold. The bond is connected there, isn’t it?” Gellert was still out of it, trying to stop the taste of lemon from fading as the room around him took shape once more, but he blinked away the memories, nodding in answer.   
“How did you know about that?” asked Vinda sharply, her wand suddenly pointed at Adriano. He began to explain, Reverentia’s eyes never leaving Vinda’s wand as her lover tried to placate the french witch. Gellert wasn’t quite present enough in the moment to do more to help than put his hand on Vinda’s arm lightly, not that it would do anything to stop her curse if she chose to send one. Vinda slowly relaxed her grip on her wand, exhaling almost inaudibly as the anger flowed out of her, Reverentia relaxing as the threat passed. Gellert would have reacted the same way if one of Vinda’s secrets had been casually mentioned in conversation, though probably with much bloodier results, and as Adriano laughed shakily, the tension broken, Gellert could only breathe a deep sigh of relief. 

The slight incident was soon forgotten as the four of them exchanged stories, the two Italians opening up about their lives a little, though Adriano seemed very closed off about his family. Not wanting to press, Gellert had quickly turned the question towards Reverentia, who seemed grateful that he hadn't pushed the issue. The tall witch was native to Rome, having been born into the infamous Addamus family and sent to Rhea Silvia, the school that peaked Gellert’s interest most of the three. The way Reverentia spoke about her family reminded Gellert of Indus, pride and a kind of removed affection more dominant in her tone that familiarity, though he caught a glimpse of genuine love in the witch’s voice when she began to describe their winter celebrations. Though Gellert had been warned by both Professor Mansuro and his brief experience of Italian wizarding culture, how different it was from northern european magical society, it hadn’t really hit home until he was listening avidly to Reverentia’s description of Saturnalia. In Italy they didn’t celebrate Yule. 

“It’s the one time of the year when every person is free. Free to mingle outside the boundaries of society, free from convention, free from expectation.” Said Reverentia, her voice warm and her eyes sparkling with joy, “A festival of light, in the darkest time of the year. I never used to enjoy it.” here she put her head on Adriano’s shoulder and he took over a description of the celebration.  
“It’s how we met. I sat down next to Re for the Saturnalia feast during our sixth year, when we had the inter-school tournament—” He broke off with a laugh, and the two Italians shared a quick kiss before he resumed his tale. “It was actually to win a bet. All my friends were terrified of the blood-seer Addamus girl from Rhea Silvia, so I got tricked into betting that I could sit next to her for the whole night and survive. It was the best decision I ever made.” Gellert laughed, the story a perfect balance of hilarity and emotion that reminded him of Albus in a way he couldn’t quite explain. A smile on his face at the sweet story, he glanced at Vinda, not missing the slight flicker of sadness that hovered in her eyes and realised that she wouldn’t understand. How could she? She had never been in love. Gellert swiftly changed the subject, not wanting Vinda to feel alienated by their differences. 

Adriano had mentioned that his girlfriend was a seer, and seizing the opportunity it offered, Gellert began to argue the merits of using tarot cards for divination. He was soon embroiled in debate, unable to deny his intrigue regarding haruspicy when the other seer brought it up. Reverentia’s preferred method of divination was the the rather gruesome practice of reading entrails, and it sounded fascinating. Making a mental note to look up haruspex divination rituals in the near future, Gellert blinked and focused on his surroundings once more. With a start, he realised that Vinda was actively enjoying the conversation, responding to something Reverentia had said while genuine laughter danced in her eyes as Adriano smiled winningly at her, his arm round Reverentia’s waist as the three of them talked. It was wonderful to see the ease of Vinda’s smile, but Gellert was getting more and more curious about what had taken the weight off her shoulders. It was neither the time nor the place to ask, but Gellert was determined to find out what had happened by the end of the night. 

Hours later when the night had truly descended and they were saying their goodbyes Reverentia pulled him aside with a serious expression. “You are fortunate to have a friend such as her.” She said, and something about the tenor of her voice in the cool evening sent shivers down Gellert’s spine. He half thought he caught a glimpse of yellow light in the tall witches eyes, but it was gone before he could be sure.   
“I know.” he replied, wondering if his Seer Sight made bystanders as uncomfortable as he currently was, and Reverentia laughed, her smile returning as they walked back towards the other two. Lamellar was curled around Vinda’s neck like a thick scarf, purring loudly as Adriano gingerly scratched under the self-satisfied feline’s chin when they rejoined the party. The cat seemed very content with the arrangement, though Vinda looked more exasperated by her familiar’s attention seeking behaviour than anything else, and soon the four of them parted ways. 

“I know I mentioned it earlier, but I have to know how you did it. You’ve changed so much since the winter. You seem happy.” Began Gellert once they were back in the guest room in Ranieri’s house, and Vinda smiled, the expression darker than the one Gellert had been expecting.   
“I am.”   
“I’m glad Vinds, I really am, but don’t keep me in suspense. What’s changed?” He asked, impatience reaching a crescendo as the gnawing curiosity that had been with him all evening finally rose to the surface.   
“I’ve found a way to master my emotions.” she said, her voice steady despite the more personal waters the conversation had drifted into. “I’ve grown up Gel. I’ve found a way to deal with the past.” It sounded brilliant. It sounded fantastic. It sounded, thought Gellert, a little surprised at his own suspicions, too good to be true.   
“Vinds, that sounds wonderful, but isn’t it dangerous?”   
“Dangerous?” She laughed. “Gellert, I’ve developed a whole new branch of mind magic. Or at least I think I have. It’s not harmful. I’ve been using it for months and there haven’t been any negative effects.” Gellert’s eyes widened, and he became, if anything, more worried about his friend. Seeing his mood shift Vinda smiled at him, the expression softer than he had ever seen it. “Oh Gellert. It’s fine. It isn't anything like one of those mood potions or a cheering charm or anything like that. It’s just raw magic.”   
“Thank Merlin, you had me worried there.” 

“It’s brilliant, if I do say so myself.” Said Vinda, a massive smile forming as she began to explain her theory to Gellert. “The way it works is that you give yourself permission to feel. Before, if I was feeling really bad I would lock it all away behind occlumency shields. It worked, but it required a lot of my energy, and at least once a year I had to let down my barriers or they would get fragile, and break at unexpected moments.” Gellert winced, thinking about Albus’ disastrous attempt to do the same last autumn, but Vinda drew him out of the painful memories, almost glowing with pride as she got to the description of her discovery, “So I let myself feel everything. I let myself feel whatever it is that I’m feeling, just give in to the emotion until it fill my lungs completely. Then I breathe it out.”   
“Breathe it out?” Asked Gellert, intrigued.   
“Yeah. I found this odd little room in the library full of books on forgotten arts, which was brilliant by the way, I used that book copying spell on every volume in there, you’ll love them. As it turns out, some Irish wizards in the thirteenth century believed that when magically gifted people exhale, neutral magics that we aren’t using for anything leave our bodies through the lungs. I just built on that idea and found a way to attach my emotions to that raw magic, and then push it out through my lungs on command.” Said Vinda, Gellert watching as the burning joy of sharing a new magical theory lit up his friend’s whole face for the first time. As Vinda seemed to glow with happiness, Gellert realised with a sinking feeling how much she had gone through alone, and how quietly she had dealt with her pain. 

“When did you start using occlumency?” He asked, half afraid to hear the answer, and Vinda flinched a little before breathing out again, the sad smile that followed another new expression on her face.   
“Start? I had occlumency shields before I knew what they were.” Her voice was steady, and Gellert’s heart was breaking for her.  
“Why?” he asked, but even as the question slipped past his lips he knew the answer. Her family.   
“You don’t know what its like, to be alone.” Replied Vinda, her smile kind even as Gellert opened his mouth to object, thinking of the hollow aftermath of Albus’ initial rejection. “No Gel, you don’t know.” Vinda’s eyes were hard, uncompromising as she spoke. “You are loved. You’ve always been so loved, by your mother, by Indus, by me, by your uncle. By Albus, by Bathilda, by every damn arithmancer that’s ever read a proof you wrote. You can’t understand what it’s like, growing up unwanted.” Gellert reached out a hand to Vinda, and her grip was steel as she held onto him for support as she spoke. “I do. I was a mistake. They wanted a son, my parents, a powerful heir who could bring the Rosier name to new heights. Instead they got me. A daughter. A girl. Too strange, too cold to be a pretty matrimonial accessory for some aristocrat and too powerful to abandon by the wayside. So they pushed me away, threw money at me, drowned me in etiquette lessons until I learnt how to play a part. The part of the dutiful, loving daughter.” her voice shook, and Gellert enfolded her in a hug, smiling as he felt a rush of her magic when she exhaled, their embrace lending her the strength to continue. “Only it was too late. By then they knew I was acting. They knew that I didn’t understand how to love them. And in the end, my act only made them hate me more.”   
“You are loved Vinda. You are my family. You know that.” Gellert’s voice was thick with emotion as he spoke, his grip tight on Vinda as she finally lay the truth bare before him.   
“I do. I trust you Gellert. We have always been a family.”  
“I’m glad things have changed. I’m glad you found a way to improve things for yourself. I’m glad we have each other.”   
“So am I.” Replied Vinda. 

They had fallen asleep in the same bed, Lamellar curled up between them where it was warmest, and, thought Gellert ruefully as he drifted towards sleep, where he was safe from Vinda’s lighthearted hexes. His rest had been dreamless and Gellert hadn’t woken until quite late the following morning, and probably would have slept in for longer if Vinda hadn’t charmed the bed to bite him rather painfully. Swearing up a storm, Gellert leapt for his wand and shot a tickling charm at Vinda, who neatly dodged the spell and then motioned towards the clock pointedly. After that things blurred in a frenzy of bag packing and goodbyes, and soon they were leaving through Ranieri’s fireplace, Lamellar purring loudly from where he had settled in the crook of Gellert’s left arm. When they arrived in their rooms in Paris Cixi greeted them with a joyful shriek, depositing a dead pigeon at Gellert’s feet. The cat sprang from his arms, delighted by the warm welcome, and Vinda looked around in shock at the room.   
“I like what you’ve done with the place.” she said, pointing her wand at the coffee pot and watching as it came apart, water streaming from the tap towards the lower half as grounds flew down out of the cupboard. It slotted itself back together and floated down to rest on the stove. Gellert clicked his fingers and flames leapt and danced up beneath the coffee pot, the smell of home permeating the air. 

The cheerful blaze of his floo box’s eternal flame flared up in a shower of green sparks, a newspaper shooting through the air towards Gellert and interrupting their idle conversation. A smiling photograph of himself was staring up at him from the third page, but the print faded into insignificance as a letter slid out of the crumpled paper. It’s collision with the wooden surface of the desk was almost inaudible, a whisper of a sound, but it echoed in Gellert’s ears in the silence of the room. Albus. Gellert smiled, a rush of joy glowing from his chest, tearing the envelope a little in his haste, and began to read. 

“The way St Mungoes dismissed my spell set has triggered a major internal review of their research systems.” He murmured absently, tracing his thumb over the ‘Ever yours, Albus.’ as he reached the end of the letter. Wondering if his lover had meant to repeat the farewell he had carved into the study’s door in grief the previous summer, Gellert closed his eyes for a moment, warmth radiating through his chest as he smiled.   
“You look unduly pleased by that.” said Vinda, her worried tone cutting through the sense of calm the letter had brought him.   
“Albus sent a letter with the paper.” Before he could even blink the letter was snatched out of his hands and Vinda was wrapping him in a hug. “What are you doing?” he asked, mildly worried about his friend’s sanity. He heard her mutter something into his shoulder, her protective embrace somewhat constrictive. “I need to breathe you know.” he added.  
“I’m sorry you had to read another letter form him Gel. Whatever he said, you’re wonderful.” Said Vinda, her eyes almost glowing with rage.   
“Vinds, it’s ok. I’m ok. It was nice to hear from Albus again.”   
“I’m sorry?” her tone, Gellert felt, was a little more disbelieving than could be considered polite, but he let it slide, wanting to make sure they were on the same page.   
“We’re on better terms than we were at Yule. I’m seeing him tomorrow actually.” 

The silence that followed his statement was deafening. Vinda’s expression seemed to flicker, micro expressions there and gone again in the blink of an eye before she set her jaw, determined, and set her coffee to one side before beginning to speak. “You shouldn’t.” Gellert had been expecting it as soon as he’d seen her earlier anger, but it still stung.   
“I have to.”   
“You certainly do not have to.” said Vinda sharply. “I’m surprised that— oh of course. You didn’t read the other letter. The one he left you before Yule. Trust me when I say you shouldn’t feel obligated to offer that man anything, least of all affection.”   
“I couldn’t help it if I tried. We’re in love.” A smile formed on his face of its own accord as Vinda’s expression levelled out, her anger washed away by the new occlusion technique she had created as she raised her wand.   
“Accio.” The letter he had asked her to burn flew towards them, opening in front of him with a flourish. “Read that, then tell me that he loves you still.” Gellert flinched away from the words, but Vinda had struck a chord. He needed to know. 

‘To Gellert  
You saved my life, and now we are bound together by yet more of the strongest magics possible. A life debt. Why kill my sister, but spare me? Why save me, condemning her? Shades of the family you broke choked the life from me, yet when I stepped out into the nothingness to discover that I did not truly want to die, you were there. When I needed you, when only you could have saved me, you were there. It is the most terrible thing you have ever done.’ 

Gellert was angry, he realised, but as memories of that terrible night threatened to overwhelm him the bond pulsed and the warmth of Albus’ love roared in his veins once more. He looked back to the letter, his heart thudding as anger and love fought for control. 

‘When you were so gentle, thoughtful enough to distract me with transfiguration, kind enough not to touch me, though it might have brought us both comfort, it almost broke me all over again. You are a plague, Gellert Grindelwald, a plague that I long to hate but cannot seem to. I can’t stay here. You bring my ghosts to the surface, and I need to learn to breathe without my lungs being clogged with memories. I need to let myself live again. I can’t do that at your side.  
— Albus.’

“This changes things.” He had not meant to say that. He had meant to forgive his lover this letter, written as it was in anger and sorrow, but found that he could not. The letter did change things. Albus saw a life by his side as intolerable. Part of him wanted desperately to believe that it had been the heat of the moment that leant conviction to Albus’ words, to take their recent amiability as evidence against it, but he could not shake the certainty that the letter seemed to echo. He couldn’t decide if he should cry or blow something up, but as whatever sickly sweet flavour the bond had brought to him faded into an aftertaste, Gellert realised what the letter could become. Albus’ one weakness had always been guilt, and Gellert now held the keys to his lover’s conscience. He swallowed, a sharp pain in his chest flooding his mouth with the sour taste of bile, as if magic itself was asking how he could consider doing something like that to Albus. Another spike of resentment turned to pain, Gellert biting back a scream. “Pain relief potion.” he gasped, breath coming in short gasps as the bond tore at him, worse than it had ever been before, “Top cupboard. Immediate left of the cooker.” As he said it he heard a crash, and looked down in confusion to see his coffee mug in shards of broken china on the floor. He must have knocked it off the table, though he had no clear memory of moving, the odd disconnect between his mind and limbs alarming as the bond shifted again, pain rippling through him from some new angle. 

The next thing he remembered was Vinda kneeling beside him where he was slumped on the floor. Vinda. His family. The one person who had looked at the darkest parts of him without a flinch and embraced them. Anger and hurt marked out battle lines across his brow, his expression pained as the bond dug viciously into his insides and pain radiated out from his chest until his whole body ached with it. Vinda uncorked the small bottle in her hand, but as she did so the door was flung open and a concerned Albus rushed toward him.   
“What happened Gel? How did you get hurt? I felt your pain.”  
“It was this.” Vinda’s eyes flashed, wrathful as she smiled coldly at Albus, handing him the letter that he himself had written. Her words cut through the soothing effect of his lover’s presence, pain returning twofold as Albus’ face crumpled in hurt. “It was you.” Vinda gave the dagger another twist, Albus’ eyes glittering for a split second before his tears dried up and he levelled a look of deepest loathing at Vinda.   
“Come, gentle Ganymede,” he murmured, Gellert’s heart lurching in his chest as Albus murmured the famous lines. “And play with me. I love thee well, say Juno what she will.” The Marlow quote rolled off his tongue sensually, but Gellert wouldn’t quite allow Albus’ magnetic charms to wash away what he had insinuated about Vinda.   
“I don’t want to have this turn any more confrontational than it already has.” Gellert rasped, not willing to meet Vinda’s eyes as she suffered the barbs of Albus’ quick anger. “Now could I please have that pain relief potion?” It had come out harsher than he had meant to, but Vinda handed the potion across without comment, cool judgement in her eyes.   
“It won’t work.” Said Albus, “I tried those, in the beginning.” 

Albus offered a tentative hand, sadness hanging heavy in the air between them until Gellert interlaced their fingers, trying to ignore his lover’s slight flinch at the connection of their palms. Albus’ unspoken apology danced in his eyes, and Gellert smiled a little. Words froze in his throat as Albus begged forgiveness with his silence, and they fell into a kiss that Gellert couldn’t have said who had started, two halves of a whole slotting back together. Distantly he heard a door slam and pulled away from Albus, gasping for breath as his blood sang in his ears, pleasure hot in his veins. “I need to make Vinda understand about this.”   
“Of course. Run after her again.” said Albus harshly, before swallowing his misplaced anger, wincing at Gellert’s reproachful stare. “I’ll be in my London flat. Come and find me, once your done here.” The crack of apparition drowned out by the singing in his ears, Gellert opened the door to Vinda’s room and did his best to look contrite. 

“Listen, I’m sorry about what Albus said.” He began, leaning in the doorway as nonchalantly as he could, his shoulders slumping as she laughed derisively.   
“You can’t undo the past, but you ought to leave it where it belongs.” she snapped, “But then I suppose you never have made sense, so don’t let me stop you.” She let out a long suffering sigh and the magic curling on her breath melted away some of the anger that had been written in her stiff posture and dark scowl.   
“Well what would you have me do, just cut him off? You know I can’t.” said Gellert, somewhat desperate.   
“I know you won’t.” Said Vinda sadly, turning to face him properly as she spoke. It took Gellert a moment to identify the expression on her face, not pity, there was too much anger in Vinda’s eyes for that, and it wasn’t understanding either, because she would never pretend to know what it was to love. She wouldn’t demean their friendship by lying to him about that. There were currents of contempt and frustration, but they were almost washed away by the simple offer of support. Her gaze was unwavering, a promise. Whichever path he took, she would accept it.   
“Thanks. For not trying to stop me. For being so understanding.” said Gellert, ineloquent in the face of the gratitude he felt towards his oldest friend.   
“Go on then. I know you’re itching to meet him, wherever he went, so don’t loiter around here on my account.”   
“I’ll be back this evening.”   
“Please, for the love of Hecate, stay away. I’d hate to have to hear anything of your nocturnal activities.” She said, laughter lighting up her eyes as she waved him away. He grinned and apperated away, still laughing when he appeared in Albus’ living room in London.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well this took longer to do than expected. Got lots of extra days at work so I've been run off my feet with that. Hope you liked the chapter. As ever, comments are very much appreciated, so let me know what you thought of the chapter. 
> 
> Next one should be up before the new year (For reals this time) 
> 
> Happy reading,  
> Frumion


	13. Accusations and Invitations

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Gellert and Albus argue, Gellert convinces Albus to put his trust in him once more, and Gellert attends the social event of the year in pureblood England. Old acquaintances of Gellert's and Vinda's cross their path, and, during the course of an evening that could be described as magical, Gellert seizes the opportune moment.

“I’m sorry.” Gellert winced, his Vinda-induced good mood fading as Albus broke the silence with an apology.   
“Can we just move on?”   
“If that’s what you want. But for the record—”   
“It is.” Said Gellert softly, killing what was sure to be a sanctimonious and entirely one-sided conversation in it’s infancy. “Ganymede? Really?” He added, a wry smile making its way back onto his face.   
“Well it is somewhat appropriate.” Replied Albus, crowding Gellert back against a wall and winding one hand into Gellert’s hair as he took Gellert’s mouth in a rough kiss. “What do you want to do?” Said Albus as they broke apart.   
“I don’t mind. Your company is all I need.” replied Gellert, breathless.   
“My,” Albus paused, “Company?” there was a twinkling diamond of mischief set in the Lapis Lazuli of his eyes, as he slowly looked Gellert up and down, his gaze hungry even as he smirked at his own double entendre.   
“Grace my immortal beauty with this boon, and I will spend my night within thy bright arms.”   
“Immortal Beauty?” asked Albus cheekily, and Gellert smiled, tugging his lover’s hair a little sharply in response, pulling forth a moan as he began to dominate their kiss. After what felt like an age Albus disconnected their mouthes once more and smiled easily at Gellert, who met his lover’s smile with one of his own as the bond sparked with warmth.   
“Do you deny it?” He asked, and Albus laughed, shaking his head.  
“Not for a fraction of a second my love.” The endearment caught him by surprise, and Gellert realised with a start that he didn’t quite remember if Albus had called him ‘my love’ the previous year or if it were new. Swallowing the odd lump in his throat, Gellert untucked Albus’ shirt and slid a hand upwards to ghost over the skin of his back, feeling him shiver slightly as skin met skin. 

Albus moved back and pinned Gellert’s hands above his head, an overt show of dominance that Gellert revelled in, blinking slowly as Albus’ inhibitions were peeled away by the sheer force of the attraction humming across the bond. Before they could do more than kiss, a lighthearted touch stolen here and there as Gellert was pressed back into the wall, the tell-tale crack of apparition echoed through the rooms. “My God!” It was a masculine voice, the scandalised disgust so characteristic of a muggleborn clear as a bell in the soft baritone.   
“Edwin.” Said Albus, blushing a brilliant crimson and backing away from Gellert, who did his best to look as un-ravished as possible as the sunlight poured onto him, highlighting the bruised column of his throat and kiss swollen lips. “I’d quite forgotten you were coming today.”   
“Who’s this then Al?” managed Gellert, his voice cracking a little as he fought to sound put together in the face of the whiplash inducing tone change.   
“This is Edwin Davidson. He’s been doing some assays for me for the Dragon’s blood trials.” Replied Albus, clearly finding the situation mortifying. As his lover spoke Gellert took in the expression of frozen horror on this Edwin’s face and couldn’t help but crack a smile. His lips twitched, his semblance of civility threatening to fold in the face of the poor man’s shock.   
“A pleasure to meet you.” he said, not quite able to keep the mocking edge out of his voice as he spoke, drawing an amusedly disapproving glance from Albus.   
“I’m sorry about this Edwin. I’m really, really sorry.” said Albus, his tone serious as his wand jumped int his hand and he levelled it at the unsuspecting man. “Obliviate.” 

“Why use that spell?” asked Gellert once they had deposited the slightly confused muggleborn in his own sitting room and returned to Albus’ flat. Watching Albus walk through the Muggleborn’s mind had been almost sensual in and of itself, his lover radiating power as he cast a curse many would describe as dark. A twisted smile had reached Gellert’s eyes as Albus finished the curse, his mouth coated in the familiar taste of sweet-rot caused by powerful curses as arousal thrummed in his veins.   
“What do you mean?” Asked Albus, a little defensive as they reached the door of his bedroom.  
“Why go to such lengths to hide our love?”   
“It would do neither of our public images good. Muggleborns hold sway, after all they are the majority in England, and they will be much more tractable if we are seen as beyond reproach. It’s a sacrifice we must make for the greater good.” The phrase sent shivers down Gellert’s spine and he closed his eyes, rooms full of people, explosions and spellfire glowing behind his eyelids for a moment before a rough kiss brought him back to the present.  
“Always thinking ahead.” He murmured, and laughed a little sadly. He hadn’t grown up with muggleborns, had never really had to deal with the kind of prejudice that was so familiar to Albus, and he couldn’t quite force away his anger at the injustice of it all. Albus’ first thought shouldn’t be to hide a part of himself, but he’d been taught that the people he loved made him lesser somehow. “We shouldn’t have to hide what we have.” He added, unable to help himself.   
“I know.” said Albus, the defeated slump of his shoulders painful to see, “But that is the world we live in.”   
“No, it’s not.” replied Gellert angrily, “We live in the wizarding world. The wizarding world has always been free of that particular prejudice, and it’s only gaining traction because of the way muggle culture is being integrated here. In Germany we wouldn’t have to hide—” Gellert was warming to his argument when Albus interrupted him with a kiss, the set of his shoulders tense with discomfort that Gellert didn’t understand. 

Distracted by the sight of the mirror hanging opposite Albus’ bed as they made their way into his lover’s bedroom, Gellert couldn’t help but smile at the suggestive positioning of the looking glass. “Thinking of putting on a show?” he asked, images of Albus performing various sexual acts in the view of the mirror playing out in his mind. He swallowed, eyes glittering with want as half a dozen ideas made his blood run hot.   
“What?” asked Albus, looking at Gellert as if he had just hugged a Dementor.   
“The mirror. It’s got an almost perfect view of the bed.”   
“And what of it?” He was met with a look of incomprehension, an expression that was out of place on his beloved Albus, and in that moment Gellert realised that Albus didn’t know. He had never explained the mirror.   
“There are two mirrors, connected by forgotten magicks of the fifth age, judging by the runic designs inlaid within the frame. You activate them with a spell and we can each see what is reflected in the other mirror.” He said, half a dozen emotions whirling across his lover’s face before Albus’ expression settled on a fevered curiosity. Gellert began to explain more about the mirrors, their origins and his theories on the connecting magics, Albus summoning some paper and a quill as he did so and beginning to draw what looked like an alchemical diagram of the mirror’s base metals. In a rush of affection Gellert found himself marvelling at his luck. Albus was his once more, his lover, his equal, his research partner. His other half. “Your mind is beautiful.” He murmured, and Albus laid aside his notes for a moment to share a long kiss.   
“As is yours. The only one equal to my own.”

The ides of September came and went, Paris submerged in a misting drizzle, and Gellert couldn’t lose his smile. He had introduced Adriano and Reverentia to the rest of his friend, and despite the slightly scary consequence of Yagana, Vinda and Reverentia meeting up for a girl’s night and no doubt plotting something truly heinous, he was well pleased with how the two groups had meshed. He had seen Albus most days, exchanged small notes and books when they hadn’t met face to face, and his contribution to Healing had been noted by all of the most reputable medical journals. As he and Vinda had been enjoying their second round of coffee one morning, an imperious raven flew through the open window, dropped a letter in front of Gellert and beat a hasty retreat, having spotted Lamellar and Cixi’s twin hungry stares. Gellert rubbed his eyes, half convinced that he was seeing things, and turned over the envelope. ‘Toujours Pur’ The last time he had seen this sigil it was on a grave. 

“It’s from the Blacks.” He murmured, and Vinda brightened up, putting her coffee to one side as a calculation look began to form on her face.   
“That’s fantastic. You should involve them you know, in the revolution. After all, what’s the point of having connections if you don’t make good use of them?” She said, and Gellert matches her calculating gaze with his own. That might just work. He opened the letter and began to read.  
“You’ll never guess what its about.” Gellert said with a laugh, “Ursula wants to know what I thought I was doing making the cruciatus curse less damaging.” Vinda began to cackle, summoning the letter to read for herself before Gellert could finish the letter.  
“Gellert,” she began, her voice an uncanny reproduction of Ursula’s given that she had only met the woman when the family had appeared to terrorise Durmstrang during their fifth year. “What in the name of Morgana do you think you are doing taking power like that away from those brave enough to cast that spell?” Gellert shivered, half expecting a curse to come flying at him as Vinda’s uncanny mimicry echoed through the room. 

“Hey, there’s an invitation to the Black Family Samhain ball here. It’s only the biggest social event of the year! This is amazing, a chance to get support that really counts, and you’ve been invited to bring a partner. I think we should match in silver detailing with different base tones personally.” Gellert’s knee jerk reaction had been to think of Albus, but their drunken dances in the moonlight to music Albus had charmed into being were no preparation for the full force of a high society gala. It was a fool’s dream that Albus would be accepted there, Gryffindor half-blood that he was, or even that he’d be willing to go. Vinda was right of course. He shook off the slight melancholy he felt, laughter dancing in his eyes as he thought of an amusing response.   
“That was a bit presumptuous of you. I might have invited any number of other people.”   
“We both know you’d make a fool of yourself somehow if I wasn’t there.” replied Vinda, her acidic delivery entirely feigned as Geert fought back his laughter.   
“So,” Shot back Gellert, still attempting too maintain his straight face, “Vinda my darling, light of my life, would you do me the honour of being my partner at the ball?” Vinda shot a stinging hex his way in response, Gellert returning fire and dodging a lighthearted curse, their teasing devolving into a mock duel. 

Reading through the whole of the odd correspondence later that morning, Gellert realised what it meant with a smile. His interview on the spell set must have been in the prophet at last. The actual spell set, and his creation process, give or take a few illegal details, had been put in medical journals across wizarding Europe less than a week after he had proved that it worked, but the press had been slower to pick up on it, particularly in England and Greece, neither of which had goof international relations with Italy. Still, that Thomas Williams must have written him onto the front page if it had been publicised enough for Ursula Black to take an interest. 

Gellert had been relaxing on his bed, covers thrown to one side as he enjoyed the warmth of the evening sun on his skin, his success and the prospect of obtaining powerful allies in England when the floo had flared green. It was a thick parcel, a book judging from the size and flight pattern, and even from across the room he could see the symbol of the Hallows inked messily in the top right hand corner of the paper. Albus had got him a book, and Gellert caught it with an easy smile and idly wondered if his lover had had attached a note. He tore off the brown paper and swallowed, mouth suddenly dry as he registered what he’d been sent. It was the Daily Prophet his own smile beaming up at him from the front page, the Italian award he was holding wrought in sepia beside him on the grainy off-white paper. Beneath the newspaper sat a copy of the latest Healer’s Handbook, a book published quarterly that contained all of the major healing research going on in the wizarding world. It was the book that contained the most of his research on the cruciatus curse, omitting only that which would see him imprisoned. 

The warm smile slid off his face, heart sinking like a stone as he registered the single question scrawled in the wide margin of the first page of his proof. ’How could you?’ The looping cursive script that he had hoped would be a congratulations pulling a sob from him as he turned the page, sparks already dancing at his fingertips as his emotions twisted and fractured until he was feeling seven different things at once. How had Albus known? What did he really think? In the narrow margin to the left of the text Albus had written ’Eleven’, but Gellert knew that it would be foolish to go, his decision made even as the looping scrawl flooded his senses with memory. Gellert let the sparks catch, the journal going up in smoke as a single tear tracked down his face. He couldn’t bring himself to face Albus’ judgemental stare, not when everything he was accused of was true.   
Hours ticked by, a tear falling from Gellert’s eye as the clock struck eleven and he felt a wave of hurt echo down the bond. He closed his eyes and took a few deep breaths, not sure what conclusions Albus would draw from his absence. He didn’t feel guilty about how he had found the revolutionary spell that so improved the motor control of afflicted patients, but he was worried by Albus’ readiness to suspect him when all he had done was for the greater good. He had just created a spell that would improve the lives of cruciatus victims across the world, yet Albus’ only remark was an all too knowing accusation. Had his wild dark magic fuelled happiness roared through the bond that night? Was that how Albus had put two and two together? If that was true, why hadn’t he said something sooner? Gellert didn’t know if the bond would let him lie to Albus’ face, but he now realised that it was the only option he had left. The bond twisted, the consequences of his desperate plans a volley of stabbing pains in his chest. Another tear tracked down his cheek as Albus apperated somewhere sightly near to him, the painfully taught pull of the bond lessening by a small amount and letting him breathe a little better before all of a sudden it was replaced with a glow of pleasure. 

The knock at the door echoed in his ears, heat thrumming down the bond between him and Albus, and he had hardly snapped his fingers, to glamour the blood magic books on his desk before Albus barged in. “You didn’t come.” His voice echoed with hurt, and it was all Gellert could do not to apologise.  
“You’’re one to talk.” he said shortly. “How many of my letters did you reply to before the summer exactly?” At that Albus had the grace to look a little guilty, but even that slight admission of fault was soon buried under a layer of sanctimonious self-assurance.   
“This is different.” Said Albus, and Gellert laughed bitterly.   
“How?”   
“When you wrote to me it wasn’t about torture.”   
“No, it was about what I feel for you. About the things I wanted to share with you. About love.” said Gellert, the tremor in his voice calculated to bring Albus some sort of guilt, even as all too real tears pooled at the corners of his eyes.  
“I came when you needed me didn’t I? When you were shaking, collapsed on the streets after a duel gone bad.” Said Albus, incredulity colouring his voice as their eyes met.   
“Yes.” the admission tore through Gellert unplanned, but he couldn’t deny it. “You did.” 

Gellert felt the first tear slide down his face then, and as if pulled by some magnetic force Albus moved towards him, reached out a warm hand to brush away the tears that had begun to run down his face. Arms wrapped around him and he returned the hug fiercely, his left hand snaking up to catch in Albus’ hair as their pulses synchronised. Gellert inhaled, the soft familiar scents that had permeated these last few weeks before the spell was broken as Albus spoke again. He paused for a moment, as if battling with himself before he shattered the calm. “I know how you made that breakthrough.” As soon as he had spoken Gellert knew why he had been so hesitant, the stab of hurt he felt echoing between them, but he steeled himself and beneath the sharp hurt he began to weave his lie, undetected by the bond. His breathing didn’t speed up, his heart rate stayed steady as a ticking clock, and when he replied the cadence of his voice was a perfectly tuned mixture of grief, outrage and love.  
“What is it that you think you know Al?” He began softly, his voice warmly loving, the barest hint of hurt colouring the tone before he continued in a voice that echoed with pain. “Do you honestly condemn my discovery? I’ve revolutionised neural healing. Is that such a bad thing?”   
“You couldn’t have done it through theory alone. I know how you think. I know how you conduct your research. There’s always a practical trial before you go to the press. You tortured some poor muggle for that information. I know it.”

It was on the tip of Gellert’s tongue, that tantalising phrase ‘the greater good’, but he knew it would condemn him now. Instead he pulled up deep offence, not hard to feign when the man he loved was standing in his arms, an accusation of moral insanity on his lips. “You wound me. Do you really disbelieve my talents?”   
“Don’t lie to me. I’ve read through every proof, every half scribbled idea, every bloody note you ever wrote me, and you know what? There’s a step missing here that you never leave out. The evidence you always gather before really beginning to grapple with a proof. You tested it before going to Italy, I know you did, you adhere to a pattern Gel, and you’ve left something out. To get a spell this accurate you would need to see how the cruciatus affected the body, perhaps even do an autopsy. I know you, Gellert, and I know what you did.”  
“No, you do not. For arithmancy that might be true, but for healing? Albus, we couldn’t have tested what we were going to try last summer.” Albus’ face crumpled and for a moment Gellert thought he’d gone too far, brought back memories that would only condemn him further in Albus’ eyes, but there was a glimmer of something that he could see through the other man’s tears that looked suspiciously like hope, so he pressed on with his point. “There was no control test then, because there wasn’t the chance, and there isn’t one now. Healing is messy, too many variables are uncontrollable, but I’ve changed the world Albus. I’ve done some good, real good. Would you really take that away from me?” His voice was trembling, and Gellert realised as he finished that he was telling the truth. He had helped people, he had changed lives for the better, and he enjoyed the feeling that brought. Albus looked deep into his guileless eyes, the silence of the room stretching out the seconds into eons as Gellert waited for the decision he would make. This was the moment that would decide it, the moment that would test Albus' trust in him and his ability to lie to his lover. After what seemed like an eternity, Albus buried his face in Gellert’s shoulder, relieved tears staining the thin material of his shirt as he clutched the other boy closer, the bond’s uncomfortable twisting washed away as he leant into a kiss he had hardly known he planned to start. 

Rather than pulling away, Albus knotted his hand in Gellert’s hair hard enough to send jolts of pleasure through him and kissed back before trailing biting marks down his neck, Gellert melting into the reaction he had most hoped for. “You are everything,” Albus began, the muttered words sending shivers over the marks blooming on Gellert’s skin and a flush of pleasure down to his groin. Not wanting to snap Albus out of whatever had prompted this reaction, Gellert let himself be held mute by his attraction. The spellbound silence was only broken when he moaned loudly at Albus biting down harshly onto the top of his collarbone, the top two buttons of his shirt having unstitched themselves at a slight flick of Albus’ wand a moment earlier. “Merlin, I’m sorry. I’m sorry that I didn’t believe you, that I suspected you, Oh Gel.” He finished, expression almost painfully guilty as lust and hurt entwined as they echoed down the bond towards him.   
“I’ll forgive you on one condition.” replied Gellert, his mind too addled with lust to use this leverage against Albus properly.   
“What is it?” Albus asked, his voice wavering between worried and aroused. Gellert brought their mouths together in a searing kiss, heat flooding him as breath bloomed in his lungs again and the bond felt as if it were glowing with strength. “Do tell. You know I can’t stand to be kept in suspense.” His voice washed over Gellert, lustful and free of any accusation, and it brought a smile to his face that he couldn’t have hidden if he’d tried. Darting out his tongue to wet his lips, conscious of how it would make Albus feel, Gellert responded, mischief dancing in his eyes.   
“Take me to bed.”

They seemed to fall towards the bed, Albus moaning on top of him as he sucked a bruise onto the hinge of his jaw, well above even the highest collar line, where it would be noticeable to one and all, sending fire rushing through Gellert’s veins. He clicked his fingers and their clothes disappeared, limbs tangling together as Albus’ fingertips began to glow, the warmth coming from them almost magnetic to Gellert. Claiming kisses left a trail of blooming bruises down Gellert’s neck and across his shoulders. Shuddering need took them both, Gellert conjuring slick between his fingers for the joining of their bodies only to be stopped by Albus. “Don’t.”   
“Well you’re not fucking me without some kind of preparation my dear.”   
“I’ll do it.” He gasped, twining his hands through Gellert’s hair before giving it a sharp tug, eliciting a moan from Gellert. Gellert hurried to comply, his blood running hot as their heartbeats aligned, the tips of Albus’ fingers glowing a brilliant gold as they disappeared inside him. Slowly the ache of being entered gave way to pleasure, and soon fingers were replaced with cock, their shared moans loud in the relative silence of the room. Outside thunder rolled and crashed, the sky crying a reckoning as Albus found his pace and began to fuck Gellert in earnest.   
The glow of Albus’ fingers brightened into an almost blinding white as he reached completion, the skin of Gellert’s back heating up where Albus’ nails had dug into his skin, pulling him closer. The wave of pure pleasure echoing down the bond sent Gellert over the edge and as they lay there panting Gellert felt something deep in his chest mend. Rain pelted the glass, Gellert raising a weary head to observe the storm they had created before a sudden thought struck him. “Al?” He asked, tone halfway between humour and guilt.   
“Yeah?”   
“Did you put up silencing wards?”   
“No. I thought you had.” Albus said softly, unable to keep the laughter out of his voice, and Gellert winced.  
“Oh Merlin. Vinda’s going to kill me tomorrow.”   
“Don’t worry,” said Albus, a slight edge in his voice that Gellert couldn’t quite interpret, “I’ll protect you.” 

“If you ever force me to listen to that again Gellert,” snapped Vinda the following morning. “I’ll render you and your dear Albus down for potion ingredients.” Gellert laughed lightly, then arranged his face into an appropriately apologetic expression and sitting down at the breakfast table. Vinda fixed him with a frosty glare, pointedly ignoring his slight wince as he hinted in the chair, and levelled her wand at him. “I’m serious.”   
“I know.” no, that had’t come out quite right. “I know.” he tried again, this time with the appropriate level of fear in his voice. Vinda grinned and went back to her croissant, amused by his obvious act as he reached for his own pastry. “You’ll be glad to know I’ll be out until fairly late tonight.” he added as they began to eat.   
“Do I want to know?” asked Vinda, laughing despite herself, and Gellert nodded.   
“Albus and I are going to Flamel Manor for the afternoon. Albus fixed it up this morning before he went back to London.” He said cheerfully, not acknowledging Vinda’s faint scowl at the repeated mention of their 

Gellert whiled away the morning with one of the Aztec texts, only stopping every now and again to look up an unfamiliar word in the dictionary Tlaloc had made him, and the hours melted past. Before he’d had the chance to check the translation of what a particularly odd looking blood glyph was used to do Gellert felt the bond glowing, and managed to conceal the books a heartbeat before Albus poked his head round the door with a smile. They apperated down to the floo room and stepped into the fireplace, Albus’ arms draped over Gellert’s shoulders as he wound his own round Albus’ waist before realising how that would look to the Christian loving Flamel. “We shouldn’t go through together. He’s one of those sick religious types.” He said, blinking at Albus’ frown, confused. After extracting himself from his lover’s embrace, Gellert threw some floo powder into the grate and watched as green flames danced up around the trousers of Albus’ form fitting grey suit. “Love you Al, I’ll be coming through straight afterwards so don’t linger too long.” 

When Gellert stepped through the whirling green flames to Flamel Manor the conversation petered out, Perenelle smiling at him briefly, before closing her eyes, her magic expanding towards an outer wall to access the wards and casting a suspicious glance between him and Albus. “Gellert, your usual disruption of my wards seems to be absent. I take it then, that Albus is the other wizard involved in your bond?” Albus shot a look towards him that lingered uncomfortably between panic and betrayal, but Gellert didn’t have time to worry about that now. He had to come up with a story pretty quickly, and Albus wouldn’t be much help judging from the face.  
“Yes, it was one of the main focuses of our joint research the summer before last.” He managed, and Albus straightened up, pulling up a mask of calm pride.   
“It makes it impossible to fight one another, and makes communication of ideas run more smoothly.” added his lover, Gellert marvelling at Albus’ half truths that managed to omit the core of what it was while spinning a remarkable picture of the soul bond as it might have been, if they were not so in love. It had been a close shave, but they seemed to be in the clear for now at least. Gellert breathed a sigh of relief and let a tide of worry melt away, taking more of an active interest in the conversation once it was centred around less sensitive topics. 

The evening of Samhain came quickly, and as they approached the main hall Gellert made sure his societally appropriate mask of polite indifference was in place, not stopping to worry about Vinda. She had grown up in this sort of opulence, and was no stranger to an evening like this, but he would, if pressed for the truth, have to admit that he was a little nervous. It had been a long time since Gellert wore overly formal wizarding garb, and as a result he was having to be very careful not to embarrass himself by tripping over the floor length cloak that completed his midnight blue and silver ensemble. The velvet of the robes was so dark a blue that in the candlelight it appeared black, the silver embroidery on the waistcoat and lapels of the outer-robe an intricate pattern of runes, flourishes and alchemical symbols that disguised the powerful defensive wards he had stitched in in the same shade of blue as the velvet. It had taken him the better part of a week to enchant the waistcoat, but he felt secure in the knowledge that nothing could get through it, and could enjoy the evening safely from inside it. Taking a deep breath, Gellert held out his arm for Vinda and together they swept into the ballroom, the picture of pureblood elegance.  
The deep red and silver of Vinda’s dress fanned out as Gellert spun her outwards, then pulled her back towards him as the music swelled to a crescendo and smiled warmly. He had learnt to dance tripping over her feet when they were twelve and VInda still wore her hair in ratty braids and he had no idea how to dress, and now they were here, dancing flawlessly among the very highest echelons of English wizarding society looking as if they belonged. They had come a long way. As the music slowed to a stop Gellert laughed a little breathlessly before stopping dead in his tracks. There, by the roaring fire and its dancing shadows, stood an apparition of a young Indus. Vinda turned to see what had rattled him and squeezed his hand, a moment of understanding passing between them. The resemblance was uncanny. The boy must have been about fourteen by now, and he looked almost spookily like Indus had at that age. It must be the little cousin, Arcturus, Gellert remembered, wondering how the young wizard was enjoying Hogwarts. “Well we might as well go and say hello,” pointed out Vinda, and Gellert shot her an amused glance.   
“No need to sound quite so enthusiastic there Vinds,”   
“Shut it.” she said, and they walked towards the fireplace with a laugh. 

“How’ve you been Arcturus?” asked Gellert, the young man turning towards them with a slightly supercilious air and looking at the two of them blankly.   
“This will probably sound rather rude of me, and I can only offer my deepest apologies, but your names have slipped my mind. Who are you?” He said in French, his accent perfectly authentic despite having spent most of his life in England.   
“You don’t remember me?” asked Gellert teasingly, “Why, I taught you the delicate art of pranking fellow wizardkind.” A carefully curated expression of sudden memory crossed Arcturus’ face, but Gellert wasn’t fooled. There had been no flash of recognition in his eyes, so Gellert took pity on the lad and explained. “Indus’ … friend. I stayed here in the manor for about a week.” There was the dawning light of actual realisation.   
“Gellert wasn’t it?” here Gellert nodded, Vinda’s lips twitching all the while, and Arcturus’ smile became markedly less strained. “I’ve been quite well. Attending Hogwarts is rather trying, what with the rampant pro-muggle bias within the curriculum, but otherwise fine.”   
“I can imagine. In what house were you placed?”   
“Slytherin, of course. The only house worth its salt.”   
“Oh really?” said Vinda, her smile turning rather mischievous as she met Gellert’s eye, and even before she continued Gellert knew he was in for trouble “Gellert has a rather close friendship with some Gryffindors you know.”   
“Hey—” responded Gellert, and their conversation devolved into a series of light hearted quips at the other’s expense, eagerly observed by a quietly laughing Arcturus.  
After catching up with the younger boy Vinda nodded towards someone in the crowd and together she and Gellert swept back towards the whirling dancers. After stopping momentarily to pay their respects to Cassiopeia and Ursula Black, Vinda congratulating them both on the choice of orchestra, they continued across the hall towards the witch that had attracted Vinda’s attention. Bright white-blond hair flowed straight down the woman’s back in a satin curtain and the combination of this and the silver-blue of her dress created an almost ethereal effect. As he and Vinda approached a surprised smile cracked the icy facade she had been presenting, the expression making her seem much younger, almost their age rather than the twenty-seven-ish Gellert had initially suspected, and the woman threw her arms around Vinda. Rather than responding with the jinx Gellert had expected her to, Vinda beamed and returned her smile. After they had kissed on both cheeks, made a little small talk and procured three flutes of a wonderful oak leaf wine, the pale woman turned the conversation towards him a little playfully. “Aren’t you going to introduce your handsome friend Vinda?” she said, though Gellert was very glad to detect no real interest of that sort in her gaze.   
“Gellert this is Honoria Malfoy, a childhood friend. We haven’t seen each other since my family—” here she paused, obviously pushing away some of the more painful memories of her disowning “Well it’s been years at any rate. Honoria this is Gellert Grindelwald, my best friend.”   
“Charmed.” said the witch, her eyelashes aflutter and her smile coquettish, Vinda giggling as Gellert shot her a deeply uncomfortable look.   
“Honoria, I’d advise against that particular sort of enchantment, Gellert’s about as bent as it is possible to be, and will only find it fully if you flirt. You’d have more luck flirting with a boulder.” Said Vinda, coming to his rescue, but at the mention of boulders Honoria shuddered delicately, an expression of disgust forming on her heart shaped face.   
“I’ve already spoken with the Goyles and the Crabbs thank you. And horrible conversationalists they all are too, not a though between them in either family.” Vinda laughed, Gellert feeling left out for a moment before Vinda masterfully steered their conversation towards the statute of secrecy.   
Their little debate had drawn a crowd, and as more of the elegant guests began to speak Gellert let a dark smile begin to take hold on his face. This was real progress. His little speeches at the fight pit might have gathered supporters to their cause, but in this room Gellert held the most powerful families in England spellbound by his ideas. This meant things would really start to change.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is mainly set up, I know, but I think it was pretty funny as a stand alone chapter anyway and yes, that was a shameless attempt to increase anticipation for subsequent chapters. Shame is for the weak. 
> 
> As always, leave a comment. What did you like? What didn't you like? 
> 
> Happy reading, Frumion.
> 
> EDIT: There were some structural issues in this chapter that have now been fixed. I reread it just now and realised that I'd changed one plot point that affected other points of the chapter, but didn't change those bits. This is now fixed, as well as some spelling errors.


	14. First Steps

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The preparation for the final duel of the German national duelling competition, the duel itself and its aftermath.

“Perhaps you’re right." Gellert conceded as they stumbled through the door of their rooms. If anyone but Vinda had suggested that he might be a bit too fond of firewhiskey they would have found themselves on the end of a nasty hex, but as it was her, he just laughed lightly as they stumbled towards the sofa Vinda had added to the kitchen when she’d first got back to Paris, not quite able to refute the statement. The evening had been a huge success, the close-knit society of pureblood Britain had heard what they had just said, and it had listened.  
“Of course I am Gel, that’s my job.” She replied, deadpan, and he smiled.   
“You were fantastic back at Black Manor.” She had been. Together they had held the crowd’s attention, begun to take their first big step towards change, but it had been Vinda’s calculated allusions to the incompetence of the current ministries that had so touched Cassiopeia Black. Indus’ mother had toasted them, and the open show of support had been immeasurably valuable.   
“We both were.” replied Vinda, and Gellert grinned. 

As the night wore on, the sky greying into dawn, Gellert started one of the Aztec handbooks on practical warding, the foreign words absorbing his attention as the hours slid past like weed off a kelpie’s fin. He sighed, reaching the end of the fourth chapter and realising with a vague sense of disgust that he had been so distracted that he hadn't even taken off the dress robes he had spent the better part of a day in. He pulled the layers of enchanted cloth over his head and folded them carefully away into his wardrobe until he was left wearing only his sweat soaked undershirt. He flung the offending garment over his head with a sigh of relief, not bothering to aim anywhere in particular. He flung it into a corner, firing a cleaning spell towards the shirt in an attempt to hit it before it landed on the floor, the informal target practice bringing a tired smile to his face as his spell connected. Gellert smiled, pulling on the sun-worn peach toned shirt he had once considered his best, and summoning a clean pair of trousers in a soft charcoal grey as he opened the window for a fast approaching Cixi. She had red staining the white feathers all around her beak, and at his fond scratching let out a self satisfied screech, hopping from the edge of his desk to his shoulder as Gellert smiled, happy that his familiar had forgiven him for the careless movement that had so affronted her earlier in the evening when he’d drunkenly thrown his cravat over her. 

The final duel of the German national championships was growing closer, and Gellert was doing his best to avoid complacence. The other finalist was bound to be a worthwhile opponent, and he didn’t want to underestimate the man and lose the elder wand in what was essentially an over glorified game. It wasn’t likely to happen, but he wasn’t quite arrogant enough to believe it completely impossible, so he had written to Bartolomeo asking about the disease that the other competitor was recovering from, wondering if he could exploit any lingering weaknesses it caused. At around two that afternoon a rushed response that he had done his best to not take offence at had arrived and Gellert had found himself remembering some of Adriano’s more creative insults about the southern wizard with a certain fondness. Ultimately, he would take what he could get, and what little information Gellert now had suggested that the plant would be fascinating to study further. He’d misremembered his opponent having some sort of disease, but it was more like a parasite plant than anything else, and Gellert found himself ever so slightly regretting his lack of Herbological knowledge as he reread the short note. The latinate root of the name was ‘he flies by his own wings,’ and as he realised it Gellert couldn’t not see the funny side. Volatis Proprii, a plant that grew in wizards’ organs feeding on magic rather than light, had been likened to growing wings just because of the early symptom of levitation. It proved, if nothing else, that at least some healers in the past had had a proper sense of humour, something sorely lacking in today’s lot, a problem Adriano had bemoaned constantly during his stay in hospital. Not satisfied with the little he knew, Gellert checked the time with a flick of his wand and headed to the library, leaving a note to Vinda saying where he’d gone. 

He had spent the day in the library immersed in research, but to no avail. Volatis Proprii left no long term exploitable weak points, and after surgically removing and then regrowing the organs the plant had grown in, the patient was expected to make a full recovery. Exhausted by his sleepless nights, Gellert had hardly apperated back to his rooms before sleep overcame him. His dreams were odd. Standing on a pebbled beach, Gellert watched as dozens of images of Albus overlapping in a strange mirage, identical save for the emotions in their eyes. Gellert attempted to walk towards the hazy image of his lover, and noticed that Albus was made of sand and sea glass, each expression running down it’s respective face as Gellert got closer. The strange overlap shattered into jasmine flowers and Gellert was left with the bitter flavour of those awful cockroach clusters Albus so loved before a very different place took shape around him. The dank interior of a hoarder’s dream home, the grey light of day falling through a dirty window. The same unsettling young man with green eyes that he had seen before clutched a goblet of some sort and a strange necklace in steady hands as a woman slumped over, dead at the young man’s feet. A high, cold laugh echoed in Gellert’s mind, seeping down into his bones and jerking him out of the uneasy seer dream in a cold sweat. 

Hours crept past as his vision faded away, the chilling laughter slowly petering out into silence as he became more aware of his surroundings. At some point Albus must have felt his dread and apperated to his side, but Gellert found that he couldn’t muster up the energy to explain what he had seen. Twice he opened him mouth to explain, only to find himself without sufficient words to do so, and the silence stretched each second into an interminable waiting game.   
“What happened?” asked Albus, their heartbeats synchronised in the broken remains of the silence. Gellert licked his lips, searched for words once more, and found nothing.   
“Just a bad dream.” They both recognised it for the lie it was, but Albus merely met his eye, smiled a little and opened his arms for a hug, which Gellert accepted, forever thankful that Albus was so aware of what he needed. With the comforting glow of the bond and the weight of Albus’ arm across his chest, he drifted back to sleep as the sun rose and dreamed of nothingness. When he woke once more the sun was high in the sky and Albus’ side of the bed was empty. 

Stepping beneath the arched doorway as the evening’s shadows lengthened felt like a betrayal, but Gellert pushed the guilt away and forged ahead, after all Albus hadn’t even been able to give him twelve hours of his time. Chiding himself for the thought, Gellert breathed deeply and let the tension drop from his shoulders. The smell of the blood pits hadn’t changed, the metallic undercurrent of wounded flesh almost undetectable beneath the pervasive sulphurous smell that Gellert associated with a sweet rush of adrenaline. The familiar scent sent sparks dancing through his whole body, the delicious tension not quite able to erase the guilt that he felt at going back on his promise to Albus. He had to train somehow, he reminded himself as he made his way down the long stone passage, and he didn’t have the luxury of a sparring partner he disliked enough to actually try to injure, so here he was. As he got to the main hall his name seemed to ripple through the crowd in hushed tones, and a few people nodded to him while others laughed a little and still others shot him glances of respect. “Long time no see Yaotlpilli.” Murmured Tlaloc, his breath warm against Gellert’s neck as he fought down his shock at the sudden appearance of the blood mage.   
“Why do you call me prince of war?” Asked Gellert quietly, his index fingers flickering over the razor blade in his pocket, his blood fuelling a powerful privacy ward around the two of them.  
“Well well well. You have been busy haven’t you?” replied Tlaloc, a familiar smile in his voice as he evaded giving a proper answer.   
“Of course.” he replied in Nahuatl, a wide smile crossing his face as Tlaloc started, not expecting the sounds of his birth tongue here of all places. After a few minutes of fairly basic conversation Gellert had exhausted his knowledge of the Aztec language, and Tlaloc disappeared with a laugh to find him an opponent while Gellert made his way towards the fighting sands. 

When he walked onto the red sand his pale opponent smirked, the expression twisting his face before he let it fall away in favour of a sneer. “Are we duelling with the ICU approved rules then?” he said, his mocking German grating on Gellert’s nerves, but he manufactured a smile for the crowd’s benefit and began to twist the older man’s words against him.   
“If you’d prefer, I’d be happy to do so. I understand that nerves can get the better of lesser wizards when stakes are high.” The laughter of the crowd seemed to rattle his opponent, and Gellert smiled to himself. Gellert had been considering honing the skills more acceptable for a regulated duelling ring but as he heard the man speak he found himself rapidly changing his mind. 

The answer came to him in a flash as he felt his shields bloom around him, the spellfire bursting across the sphere as Gellert realised how he could use Volatis Proprii against his opponent the following week. He could cause a sort of destabilising effect, cast little charms that made the other man feel like he was sick once more. Gellert needed access to his medical records. Arithmancy began to whirl behind his eyes as he returned fire, hastily dodging what looked like a curse that blistered skin as Gellert began to theorise what would recreate the symptoms he had read about. Levitation and fever were easy of course, but the disturbed heart rate and excess of saliva would present more of a challenge. As he had been thinking through how to induce a heart stutter he felt a sharp pain lancing through his wrist. He had been so distracted he let his shields drop a little, and a bone breaking curse had shattered his wrist. He dropped the elder wand, his hand flopping uselessly as he panicked, clumsily catching the falling wand with his left hand. He attempted a quick volley of nightmare curses, but nothing happened and Gellert swore, realising what was wrong. The wand movements he was so used to performing were backwards. Another bone breaking curse flew at him, narrowly missing his left shoulder. The evasive action jarred his broken wrist and Gellert let out a scream of pain. Narrowing his eyes, Gellert focused all of the hate and shame at his near defeat, all of the horror of finding that he couldn’t duel left handed, the pain of a broken wrist, and pushed it all at the man who had caused it. Angry and dark as it spun through the air between them, a torrent of raw magic flung the other man up into the air, pulling screams from him that echoed through the arena and brought a dark little smile to Gellert’s face. More for effect than anything else Gellert clicked his fingers, a well practiced silencing charm cutting the screaming short, and the two fallen wands soared towards him. 

As the crowd cheered his name Gellert bit his lip, inhaling deeply and attempting to regulate his pain levels the way Vinda did so that Albus didn’t apperate to him to help only to find him breaking his word. It would be disastrous, and Gellert could only hope that there was some pressing experiment that would keep his lover distracted until he was back home. Gellert allowed a vaguely familiar healer to fix his wrist, breathing a sigh of relief as the bones clicked back together and his pain faded into nothingness. After hurriedly returning his shaking opponent’s wand and voice, Gellert allowed himself to relax. Now that the instantly visible evidence of his duel had been removed, Gellert could make the case that he was only here to shore up support for the revolution, and with a smile he began to do just that. 

The following day Gellert was back in the french magical library attempting to find a spell that increased heart rate when a barn owl flapped into the healing section and dropped a letter onto the open book in front of him. Scanning the end of the letter, Gellert was faintly surprised to find that it was from Marion Dolohov, a young Russian Gellert had found himself talking to after his impromptu speech at the Black Family Yule Ball. The young man had appeared very drunk, but judging by the letter Gellert was now holding he must have been faking it, because it was a detailed analysis of how each family felt about his revolution. It read as if Imari had been there in disguise, the reaction of almost every person who had actually been in attendance was given at least a few lines, with the more powerful families given a little more analysis. This Marion fellow clearly had talent, and Gellert would be glad to have a man with that kind of inside knowledge on the notoriously finicky wizards of British high society on his side. 

As the sun wreathed the room in a wavering pale light, Gellert rubbed the sleep out of his eyes and blindly reached out for his wand, a nasty hex already taking shape in his mind for whatever had woken him before he registered the green glow of the floo box. Gellert summoned the letter warily, relaxing as he registered the neat copperplate handwriting. Gellert frowned, dismissing the misplaced response as a product of too many nights beset by visions, and felt a strange pang emanating from the bond. It almost gave Gellert pause, but his curiosity took centre stage as he tore open the letter, absently ruffling Cixi’s feathers as he did so. Gellert finished the letter with a smile and wondered how he had failed to recognise his old teacher’s handwriting. He had seen enough of it over the years, he berated himself, but the contents of the letter had put him in too much of a good mood to remain irritated at himself for long. Professor Mansuro had finally got his hands on the healing spell’s arithmancy. Gellert smiled at the reference to the Professor’s cousin and as he clicked his fingers, summoning a pen and some loose parchment to reply, he let himself enjoy the strange feelings of pride the letter had brought, glowing, to the surface. Mansuro’s tone, cooly businesslike before his trip to Rome, had returned to the warmth Gellert remembered from his school days, and it brought him genuine pride to read. He had won back the trust and admiration of his first supporter in the academic world, and with a growing smile Gellert realised that it meant more to him than he had first thought. 

When Gellert stepped out into the Duelling ring on the morning of the German final he felt confident. Albus was somewhere in the crowd, as were Vinda and Honoria, who had been almost inseparable his friend since they had been reunited at the Samhain gala. A few of Gellert’s other Durmstrang friends were there too, though Sasha hadn’t been able to get leave, and he thought he’d spotted Tlaloc in the crowd somewhere too for a moment before the commentator’s voice asked everyone to take their seats for the start of the duel. 

Once he’d thought of tripping his opponent up as they walked the customary ten paces forwards, it was hard to resist. A simple charm that fused the man’s shoes together did the trick, and the crowd looked on, gales of laughter echoing around the stadium as Gellert countered the spell before any of the officials noticed his little prank. As the man looked up, murderous intent clear in every line of his body language, Gellert’s heart sank. It was the once-pale man from the fight pits. His hair was dark today rather than the ice-white of the week before, and the presence of bushy dark eyebrows to match and a substantially rounder jaw had almost fooled Gellert into thinking that he’d made a mistake, but he hadn’t. The cheekbones were the same, and a healthy thirst for revenge glinted in the man’s coldly familiar sea-green eyes as he picked himself up and shook the crystalline white sand that signified the duel as a national final out of the fold of his robes. Gellert blinked, the world seeming to slow down between heartbeats as they exchanged a formal bow and tension began to rise in the audience as neither moved. 

The man was growing tense, his grip on his wand shifting ever so slightly, and Gellert exploded into action, forcing a skilled man who had been a split second from attack switch into a defence. It was very much like watching forces balance on the point of a rotation, the forceful volley of jinxes he had sent forcing a noticeable shift in stance. Gellert smiled. The man had what Imari might have called ‘tells’, the beginnings of a pattern of behaviour that would make Gellert’s life much easier. As the green eyes narrowed Gellert let his spherical Euler shields take shape in the air around him and smiled again, waiting for the inevitable light show as spellfire rained down on his defences harmlessly. The first stunning spell did nothing, but as they began to come in faster and faster succession Gellert began to feel something chillingly familiar. His shields had begun to corrode. He didn’t have time to think about the hows and whys that were threatening to drown him as memories of the only other spell that had ever done that had him choking back bile, so he took a shuddering breath in and set his shoulders. With the last of the shield’s structural integrity still mostly intact, Gellert stretched it out in front of him, the spell morphing into a wide plane of translucence before incasing all of the odd stunning spells inside it and shrinking down to nothingness, a point of white light that winked out of existence, the shocked silence of the crowd forgotten a moment later as the loudest sound Gellert had ever heard rocked the arena. He recovered first, but now his opponent knew that whatever modifications he’d applied to the stunning charms disabled his shields and didn’t waste any time in showing his hand. It was time. 

With the audience still reeling from shock at his mid-battle spell modification, it was easy to mask the levitation charm by sending a few of his least nasty battle transfiguration spells at his opponent. The subtle hand gesture of his left hand, a bit of blood magic that would increase heart rate, went equally unnoticed, and Gellert breathed a sigh of relief. Neither spell’s effect was too obvious, because Gellert wasn’t quite sure that it wasn’t against the rules to use an opponent’s past illnesses like this, and he couldn’t afford to have his victory appear as anything but as clean as he could manage. Small through they were individually, it seemed to be enough. The modified stunners stopped coming as the man’s face paled several shades, the audience watching with bated breath as Gellert fired a final disarming charm, the heady elixir of accomplishment and adrenaline sending hot sparks through his blood as the sands turned gold, that glorious transfiguration a powerful acknowledgement of his victory. 

Fireworks of copper star-showers, miniaturised tornadoes of silver and bright blue rings of fire exploded into being as the commentator announced his victory, and Gellert felt himself practically glow with pride. Albus was there by the edge of the white sands, and he had seen Gellert’s victory first-hand. He must have arrived when Gellert was too distracted to feel the bond, and Gellert’s bone deep warmth intensified twofold at the thought that Albus had seen his most visually stunning duel. The roar of the crowd was deafening, but all Gellert could see was Albus, standing there by the barriers and looking at him with a strange smile. The next firework exploded, strains of music filling the air as Gellert watched his full name be spelled out above the arena in shimmering gold dust. He tried to make his way towards his lover but he found himself bourn in the opposite direction, shaking hands with first the commentator, who yelled something about unique duelling style before being absorbed back into the general hubbub surrounding Gellert. He found himself shaking hands with a dozen reporters, the president of the national duelling circuit, and had just been chatting with an up-and-coming young man who he recognised as one of the three hopeful candidates vying for the position of high warlock of the German Wizengamot when he spotted the face in the crowd that he had least expected to see. His mother had come to watch the final. He wanted to wave, perhaps even indulge in jumping up and down a little at his victory, but it wouldn’t do in front of this potential ally who had so much political power. He settled for a smile and then turned back to this Ulrich Dirike to continue his explanation of the ideas he had for educational reform. 

He and Vinda had both been smiling ear to ear as they wound their way through the streets towards Gellert’s mother’s house much later that afternoon, but when the door swung open to reveal a cheerful Albus, Vinda tensed beside him. Taking a moment to drink in the sight of his lover’s smile, Gellert realised that Albus couldn’t have shaved for a few days, because there was a red-gold shadow of stubble that he was surprised to find that he quite liked beginning to take shape. He almost leant into a kiss straight away before remembering the terms Albus and Vinda had last parted on and raised an eyebrow at Albus, trying to convey that Vinda would expect an apology, and watched as his lover sighed. “Vinda, I owe you an apology. My unkind literary allusions were made in a moment of jealousy.” The french was pronounced perfectly, a far cry from the butchery Gellert was so fond of mocking, and it came as quite the shock. Albus smiled winningly, looking at Vinda expectantly for an apology that never came, his smile still lighthearted even as the bond twinged, his anger echoing hotly in Gellert’s mind while his posture remained relaxed and open. If Gellert hadn’t felt the flare of distaste emanating from the bond he would have been fooled by Albus’ sorrowful demeanour and accepted the apology, but Vinda didn’t seem ready to do so, and Gellert couldn’t in good conscience persuade her to try when he knew all too well that Albus wasn’t sincere. He frowned, not well pleased by the idea that Albus and Vinda didn’t get on, but realising that there was nothing he could do about it in that instant, he threw an arm round Albus’ shoulders and the three of them made their way towards the kitchen. Gellert sank into a chair, accepting the cup of coffee his mother offered him with a grateful sigh, laughing when Albus elected to sit on his lap instead of the free chair to his right. Vinda made a face, but Bathilda and his mother merely exchanged an amused look. 

The five of them made made for an odd group, particularly with the frosty attitude Vinda had taken towards Albus, but the conversation ran smoothly for the most part, and a weight rolled off Gellert’s holder’s as Albus ingratiated himself with his mother in suspiciously fluent German, asking about her work and deftly weaving around potentially difficult subjects until a passing question of Gellert’s mother brought him up short. “Why’s it taken so long for me to meet you then? After all you’ve been involved for more than a year now.” Bathilda shot Gellert a look of incredulity but Albus laughed, his polite mask melting into a slightly nervous smile while a frisson of worry echoed down the bond to Gellert.   
“I’m afraid the fault it entirely mine.” Began Albus, tension knotting his back as Gellert encircled his waist in a loose hug of support. “I was a little nervous to meet you because, well because—” Albus gulped, a carefully choreographed display of slight fear, and suddenly Gellert knew what he was going to say, but the words were in the air before he could warn Albus not to go down that path. “Because of the unfortunate circumstances in which we met.” Vinda’s eyes widened in what looked like grudging respect before they narrowed in anger as her mother in all but blood wiped away a tear. Gellert slipped a hand into Albus’ pocket and dug a nail into the skin of his thigh through the thin fabric, not knowing how else to convey how monumentally Albus had misstepped.  
“That’s all in the past,” cut in Bathilda, shooting Albus a dark look as she did so, “And I think that we’ve grown past it as a family.”   
“Of course Mrs. Bagshot,” said Albus, his tone warm as he pulled Gellert’s hand out of his pocket and intwined their fingers, squeezing in a silent apology that sent sparks of sadness through the bond. “I spoke thoughtlessly.”   
“No, you spoke truthfully. After all, boys your age can’t be expected to be tactful.” Said his mother with a shaky laugh, and Gellert drew the conversation towards less emotionally charged waters. 

They ended up flooing to Albus’ flat in London, having exchanged fond farewells with Gellert’s family and largely smoothed over Albus’ rather painful lie, but he wasn’t going to let it slide now that they were alone at last. “What the hell did you bring up your first introduction to my mother for? That was cruel Albus.” He said, echoing his lovers words, unable to ignore the irony of the statement.   
“It was all I could think of, given that I had about three seconds to come up with something plausible. You never told me that you’d lied to her about how last summer ended.”   
“I didn’t think I had to. I thought you’d have the good sense to use research as an excuse. She’s used to my forgetfulness on that account, so it would be watertight as an excuse.” Said Gellert, but his heart was no longer in his attempt at chastising Albus. Gellert found himself unable to quite squash his admiration at Albus’ deft emotional manipulation, despite his protectiveness towards his mother. Albus had known how much she had hurt him, and Gellert thought it it was sweet of his lover to enact a little revenge on his behalf, even if he did resent it now. It was what he would have done himself if their positions were reversed.  
“Let’s not fight. You’re the National duelling champion, and I don’t want to ruin your victory. I’m sorry about what I said, but I’ll make it up to you. I once learnt a very good way of apologising from the most intelligent Wizard I know.” He said, Gellert’s breathless laughter at the memory was cut of by a moan as Albus sank to his knees. 

“Apology accepted.” managed Gellert, coherent once more after the haze of pleasure had abated slightly, Albus laughing as he stood up and leant into a kiss. The taste was still bad, but Gellert was too stated to complain about it aloud, and soon two cups of tea were floating towards him to remove the better flavour all together. He had been settling into an armchair in the living room, a bone deep contentment relaxing his limbs as Albus had conjured a golden clock face and leapt up with a cry.   
“Come on, we’ll be late.”   
“Late for what?” Asked Gellert lazily, more than a little disinclined to move from his current spot on Albus’ best chair.   
“For Richard III. It’s on in Victoria.” Albus’ eyes were shining as he said it, and Gellert’s heart leapt. He’d never seen it live, and it was one of his favourites. Albus knew what would get him moving, Gellert thought ruefully, and after a few minutes making themselves presentable, Albus took his arm and apperated them across the city.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope you liked it, because I'm afraid it's the last you'll be getting for a while. There won't be another instalment until July. As always your thoughts are very much welcomed. 
> 
> All the best, Frumion.


	15. The Power Of A Memory.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Albus grapples with painful memories while Gellert grows more accustomed to fame and makes a promise he will be held to.

Early November had a strange effect on Albus, his atypical neediness a worrying distraction from what Gellert had been trying to focus on, namely his networking with the fairly humorous Ulrich Dirike, whose position as a rising star in German political circles had been solidified by his recent promotion. His lover hadn’t actually said anything about what was wrong, but the bond twinged almost continuously, and more than once he’d been wracked by panic for a few minutes. Albus was always calm by the time Gellert arrived at his side, refusing to acknowledge whatever it was that was bothering him, and it tore at Gellert to know that Albus was hurting like this and didn’t trust him enough to tell him what was going on. His concentration was shot because of it, and he’d ended up feigning illness to save face in one meeting. In the end Vinda had offered to represent him at all of the meetings they’d arranged to gather political support until Albus had, to quote, got over whatever it is and gone back to being his usual sanctimonious and moralising self, and Gellert had once again realised quite how lucky he was to have found a friend in Vinda. He’d gratefully gone straight to London in the floo, but Albus still point blank refused to tell him what was going on, and Gellert was getting progressively more short tempered with him about it. It was a critical phase in their plan, when his national victory was still fresh in everyone’s mind and his words would have the maximum impact. A part of Gellert resented having to give that up to look after Albus when he would not even tell him what was wrong. 

The fifth night that Gellert had spent curled protectively around his lover, he had been woken by the screaming. “NO. No, not again… So cold. I didn’t mean to… Help me Gellert, I’m so cold.” Albus was dreaming about last year. Of course, he realised, it would get worse around the anniversary. It was coming up to the fifteenth of November, and he couldn’t help but feel that he should have known. He gently made sure that Albus was properly awake and caught his eye, his lover’s gaze worryingly uncomprehending for a moment as he shook off the nightmare before he managed a small smile.   
“I’m going to make hot cocoa, and then we should probably talk. Come into the kitchen love.” He said, doing his best to ignore the stab of guilt he felt as Albus flinched away from the thought of an honest conversation. He got out of bed, making sure not to let go of Albus as he did so, and they made their way into the little kitchen of Albus’ flat locked in an embrace. “I’m going to need you to let go now Albus. You’ll get burnt if I try to cook like this.” He said, his voice still gentle, and Albus conceded the point. Sitting down at the kitchen table, Albus curled in on himself, looking so strikingly like he had last year that for one horrible moment Gellert thought he’d stopped eating again before he blinked away the fear-fuelled thoughts and saw that it was just body language. Gellert turned back to the stove, tears in his eyes, and poured out two cups of milk into a saucepan, lighting the gas ring underneath it with a thought. He mixed in his cocoa, then looked back at Albus, worry dancing in his gaze. “Everything’s alright. We don’t have to talk about last year if you don’t want to, but we can. If that’s what you need.” Suggested Gellert tentatively, feeling a frisson of guilt as Albus flinched again at the mention of what had been bothering him, evidently upset that Gellert had figured out what was going on inside his head.  
“It is.” he replied heavily, Gellert trying to conceal his surprise at the reply as he busied himself with arranging cups and pouring cocoa, waiting for Albus to speak. He didn’t, so Gellert carried both mugs through to the bedroom, Albus walking half a pace behind him, evidently too shaken to want to be far from his reassuring touch. It wasn’t until they were both wrapped in a cocoon of blankets, their wands providing the only light in the room, that Albus spoke again. “Gellert I was so lost. I— I can’t explain. It was the only thing that seemed like a solution. And then it wasn’t.” 

“You’re ok. You’re still here.” Said Gellert, his voice rough with the memory of that night and he traced down one of Albus’ cheekbones in a reverent caress, half to comfort his lover and half to remind himself that he was there.   
“I know. I have you to thank for that.” replied Albus. “For that and so much else.”   
“You don’t need to thank me. I would do it again in a heartbeat.”   
“I know.” Albus’ voice cracked, Gellert’s heart skipping a beat as he felt the connection of their souls twist, something suspiciously like guilt echoing down the bond as they lay there, side by side in the relative darkness.   
“You shouldn’t feel guilty about it Albus. That’s what love is.” said Gellert, interrupting Albus’ attempt to justify his irrational feelings with a kiss that was closer to comforting that sensual. All of the irritation he’d felt over the last few days seemed so classless now, and Gellert could only hope that Albus hadn’t felt it thought their bond. Despite his best efforts to stay awake and distract Albus from his own misery, Gellert drifted back to sleep quickly, the steady beat of Albus’ heart beside his own and the warmth of the bond lulling him out of wakefulness as he traced less and less arithmantically perfect circles onto his lover’s skin.

Bare skin against Albus’ under covers of maroon and gold, Gellert dreamed of the desert. A dark tower spiralled towards the night sky, the tallest spire of a city of dark rock raining sand as the multitude of turrets burst out of the desert in a race for the stars above. Taking a step forwards, Gellert could almost taste the cool dry air of the desert night. The sand beneath his boots shifted as he took a step towards the deep wells of shadow below the ramparts. Gellert felt his heart skip a beat, his face almost hurting with the force of his gleeful smile. He had found it. He was finally here. The thought sent sparks of excitement dancing down his spine, but he didn’t understand. Where was here? He didn’t know. The air smelt strange, a mixture of frankincense and mugwort permeating the cool desert night, but even as he inhaled the vision began to fade. The edges of the castle stayed with him for a moment longer, jagged silver lines hanging behind his eyelids before they too faded as Gellert became aware of the warmth of Albus’ body and the smooth slide of the ridiculously patterned silk sheets against his skin once more. A wave of frustration rose within him. He was sure that whatever the vision had been about to reveal was important, and he knew he wouldn’t be able to get back to sleep without having written up the strange vision in his notebook and tried to find out more about a city under the desert. With a sigh, he slipped out of bed and paced across the room, torn. If Albus woke while he was gone it would be awful, all of the vulnerability he’d shown thrown back in his face by Gellert’s unexplained absence, but he couldn’t just sit here. Tucking Albus’ hair behind his ear, Gellert extracted himself from his lover’s embrace and walked over to the bookshelves lining the far wall to see if there was anything that might reference an underground city, pulling the sound of his footsteps out of the air with a thought. 

His notebook had made it through the wards, though it had taken a good forty minutes to reach him from Paris even with his overpowered summoning charm, and he had soon written up the vision, putting the two distinct scents that he so vividly remembered in capitals just in case they could help him identify where he had been. None of the books in Albus’ room had yielded any answers, but he couldn’t quite bring himself to leave when Albus’ heart was so prone to racing, his dreams clearly not pleasant, so he got back into bed and curled close to his lover. His research lay beside him on the covers as he held Albus as tightly as he could, pushing warmth down the bond in an attempt to ease Albus’ nightmares. 

Gellert could tell when Albus woke up, a seeping feeling of dull melancholy echoing down the bond more strongly with every passing moment as his lover shook off the cobwebs of sleep. Worried, Gellert kissed him gently and smiled, the bond refracting the love he felt towards Albus, only to be absorbed into the miasma of misery at his core. “Is there anything I can do to help?” he asked softly.   
“I’m fine Gel,” said Albus, but Gellert wasn’t fooled for a minute. This was a pathetic attempt at putting on a brave face, and he would have been able to see through it without the bond. He forced away the sting of hurt he felt at being fobbed off with the obvious lie and replied in a soft voice, refusing to be baited into an argument.   
“You don’t have to be ok right now Al.” he murmured, his lover’s smile crumpling at his words. Gellert took Albus’ hand and entwined their fingers, kissing each knuckle before pulling him close.   
“What—” began Albus, but Gellert interrupted with a kiss. It was not the innocent affair of the previous evening, Gellert taking Albus’ mouth in a rough claim, all teeth and tongue in an attempt to force the memories that plagued him into silence.   
“Let me distract you.” he breathed as they parted.   
“I don’t have the energy Gellert, I’m sorry.” Said Albus, the lust that had been drowning the blue of his eyes fading, replaced by misery once more. Gellert had always found sex to be the best distraction from ones problems, but he could see that this must be one of those rare instances where Albus reacted in an almost polar opposite manner to him in response to some form of emotional upheaval, and resigned himself to trying to cheer up his lover some other way. They spent the day curled up together on the comfortable reading chair in Albus’ private library, sharing the occasional lingering kiss and taking comfort in the steady pulsing of their bond, Gellert projecting warmth and happiness down the bond as they each flicked through a book or two. The light faded and evening came, the days blurring into each other as Albus found his feet once more as the anniversary of his suicide attempt grew steadily more distant, and eventually life resumed its busy course. 

The following weeks bled together in a stream of interviews for the German papers, Gellert anxious to steer his debut wave of popularity towards support for his cause, but they couldn’t be too careful about their image. Vinda was taking to their spotlight like she was born for it, and Gellert was trying not to be bitter about it. After all, she had been, as much as anyone could be, and the relative ease with which she lived in the public eye was incredibly useful. Gellert himself was quite stressed, constantly having to watch what he said and tread lightly around sensitive topics, and keeping track of all the threads of his half-truths was more taxing that he’d imagined when every word was being scrutinised, and any contradictions would have huge effects on his credibility. It was an entirely different experience to the academic fame he’d had previously, where his speeches only caught the ear of the well informed, and were mostly a-political, and different again to the rousing speeches he had given in the blood pits where he never had to watch his words at all. 

As a consequence, they had decided to use Gellert’s newfound fame to right some relatively smaller wrongs while they both became more accustomed to all of the changes that came with it. Their first order of business had been raising some more awareness for the plight of Veela across Europe, and it was slow going, but they’d managed to get an article on it written in two of the German papers and Albus was trying to get The Prophet to run a similar article, though he’d been less involved in their political machinations than Gellert would have liked. Soluna had apparently received word that someone high up in the Veela clan structure would be paying him a visit soon to discuss his next steps in his efforts to help their cause, and he wanted to be prepared.

The knock at the door came just as Gellert was putting the finishing touches to his carefully curated appearance. He tapped the deep amber cufflinks he had selected with his wand, waited as they attached themselves and went to the door with Vinda, noting her choice to contrast his jewellery with her own. She was sporting precious stones of a deep forest green that contrasted the pink tinge of her robes beautifully, and Gellert complemented the outfit, smiling as he opened the door to two of the most beautiful people he’d ever seen. They were young looking, though of course with Veela it was impossible to tell, both with tumbling ringleted hair half way between a tawny brown and the colour of honey with eyes that matched. They looked too similar to be anything but siblings, and Gellert wondered if the presence of the brother was some sort of test for him. It was true that for a moment he had felt a stab of longing, but the bond twisted in his chest and the lust he felt echoed in his head, summoning images of Albus and dispelling the strange magic of the Veela’s allure. Vinda welcomed them in graciously, even less phased by their beauty than Gellert had been, and the two of them exchanged glances. “It’s true what they say then, that neither of you are affected by the allure.”  
“Yes, it must be quite the relief for you.” replied Vinda, and Gellert smiled, but the man had fixed him with a strange look.   
“You told Soluna that you preferred the company of men, yet I’m no more capable of bewitching you than Marie. Why lie?” He said, his voice low and musical. Gellert grinned internally, pleased to have been right about them testing him.   
“It is more simple than the truth, at the time a painful one. I have sworn myself to one Albus Dumbledore.” He had said Albus’ name before remembering his lover’s discomfort with people knowing and kicking himself for his misstep. True, it had shown the Veela that he trusted them, at least on some level, but it felt like a betrayal of Albus’ trust. He felt guilty, though he knew that Albus’ irrational need for secrecy was doing him more harm than good, and it irked him to have to keep yet another secret from the man he loved. Gellert shifted from foot to foot, disliking how the list of things he couldn’t tell Albus was growing, and longing for the simpler times they had shared in the past before he was brought back to the present by the voice of Marie, who had evidently befriended Lamellar while Gellert was lost in thought, as he was sitting in front of her on the table, his loud purring bringing a faint smile to the woman’s face as she spoke.   
“To business.”

“Should the political path you have walked so far fail to yield results, what will you do?” The question threw Gellert. For the past three hours the four of them had been working through the logistics of a fully fledged political campaign for Veela rights, and Gellert hadn’t been expecting the question. He met Vinda’s eye to see the same bewilderment reflected in her face, and he turned back to Julien with no idea how to reply.   
“We’ll fight.” he said, his jaw set as memories of the fear in Soluna’s eyes and the tragedy of what had happened to Nuuamaca brought to light the answer that had always been just outside of his peripheral vision. “We’ll fight for your rights. If it’s the only way, we’ll do it. You matter to me, to us, and we will see you treated with the respect you deserve.” His voice was steady, no hint of concern in his mind about what he had just promised to do. It was what they had to do. It was the right choice, not the easy one, and it mattered. Julien’s face lit up in a radiant smile, gratitude emanating from both siblings as Gellert made his declaration, Vinda’s eyes shining with what looked like bloodlust as the two veela stood up to leave.   
“You are two of a kind, Vinda No-name and Gellert Grindelwald. I look forward to working more closely with you soon.” said Julien, walking to the door and waiting for his sister to catch up, unnoticed by Gellert as he looked to Vinda, wanting to make sure that she hadn’t been hurt by being referred to as no-name in casual conversation. She offered him a wide smile and, thus reassured, he turned back to the door to offer his own goodbye, only to find that the two Veela had disappeared.

Yule was almost forgotten in the rush of press conferences and public debates, the invitation to celebrate Saturnalia with the Addamus clan that had arrived the week before was the only reason it had come to Gellert’s attention at all, and they had happily accepted it. His mother had been disappointed, and Bathilda had written more than one strongly worded letter about the importance of family, but it was too good an opportunity to decline. There would be dancing, balls where political decisions were made and alliances formed that would shape the next wizarding year, and they couldn’t afford to miss the chance to sway Italian opinion in their favour. 

The Addamus Manor was like nowhere else Gellert had ever been, a rambling palatial building done in black volcanic rock that had all been polished to a shine, with miles of land in every direction taken up by the sprawling gardens. What land hadn't been turned into carefully tended poison gardens or decorative bowers of native Italian flowers and fruit trees was kept as woodland, an eery forest that was home to some of the last Ilvran Dryads in the regions surrounding Rome surrounded the property to the north and west. On their second day there Vinda had dragged him out to the first few of the trees, intent on exploring before one of the Ilvran had appeared before them, warning them away from his forest with rage swirling in the endless green hollows where eyes would have been in a human face. After that they had stuck to the tamer areas of the Addamus property, but Gellert had still managed to ruin a pair of dragonhide boots by stumbling into a lake that he later learnt from Adriano was highly acidic due to the plants growing in it, and Vinda had almost died when she encountered the living statues in the graveyard for the first time, which had identified them as non-Addamuses and attacked in full force. Hampered by the fact that they didn’t want to destroy the statues, it had taken all of Gellert and Vinda’s combined skill to remove themselves from the situation with all of their limbs intact, and it had been a near thing even as it was. Despite, or perhaps because of the slightly terrifying grounds, Gellert was having the time of his life, every day promising something adrenaline inducing and completely novel that would no doubt give Albus more than one heart attack if he were there to see it. 

The hole in the wards the bond had created had so far gone unnoticed, and Gellert was both worried about and impressed by it. Impressed, on one hand, that he had allies powerful enough to fear no attacks, trusting that their infamy would serve as enough of a deterrent, and worried about Albus appearing. He hadn’t given the possibility much serious thought until he was walking through the poison garden arm in arm, with Reverentia, when he’d realised how dark it would all seem his lover. The grounds alone would probably give him nightmares, and Gellert shuddered to think what the Addamuses would think of Albus, especially as he was nothing near a pureblood despite all his genius. “What’s wrong Gellert?” asked Reverentia, and Gellert scowled, irritated that he’d let his mask slip far enough that she could tell anything was wrong at all.   
“I was just…” he said, then paused, at a loss for a lie that wouldn’t seem rude to their gracious host, “Thinking.”   
“You were worrying about the person who is most important to you.” She replied, and Gellert started. “Don’t worry, I haven’t guessed anything else. It’s an expression I recognise well.”   
“Do you?” Said Gellert, his tone snide without thinking, putting his hand up to his mouth in horror half a second later. “I’m so sorry. That was terribly inconsiderate of me.” He said, and Reverentia laughed, the sound as unnaturally chilling as always.   
“It was, but you are not yourself tonight. You need to talk about this, and you can trust us you know. I’ll listen.” She said, and Gellert suppressed a flinch. It was truly deft manipulation, and now he was backed into a corner. If he didn't explain he would look as if he didn’t fully trust her, and he had a sneaking suspicion that she would know if he lied. Taking a shuddering breath in, he readied himself to tell the Italian witch at least part of the truth. 

“I was thinking of my partner.” Reverentia hummed noncommittally, a clear indication to continue, and Gellert grudgingly did so. “Things are complicated with him. He’s brilliant and beautiful, but we believe very different things. He and Vinda don’t get along either, so it’s all just a little difficult right now.” There, that ought to be enough.   
“Believe different things?” prompted the dark witch, and Gellert cursed internally, wondering how he could explain without blood status coming into it. So many of Albus’ hang ups came from a place of muggle values or pressures, and Gellert didn’t know where to begin.  
“He was raised very badly, and he, well he… It’s a bit difficult to talk about. He doesn’t like anyone to know what we are to each other, and he has a very strong moral code that doesn’t align with my own all of the time. He—”   
“He’s sanguibrutto isn’t he?” She said, and Gellert cocked his head to one side, unfamiliar with the word she had spoken.   
“Sanguibrutto?” he asked, hoping desperately that his translation of the root words was wrong.   
“It means, how would you say? Of muggle parentage.” She replied, and Gellert closed his eyes, one hand moving half way to his wand before he realised what he’d been doing.   
“Not parents, grandparents, but yes.” He said, resigning himself to the idea that he’d probably no longer be welcome for the duration of the Saturnalia celebrations. 

Reverentia threw back her head and laughed. “Gellert, Adriano is sanguibrutto himself, so I hardly mind.” Gellert was thrown off, completely blindsided by this interesting little detail his friend had left out when Gellert had asked him about his past.   
“What?” He said, growing even more confused when he factored in the notorious Addamus clan. Even Cassiopeia Black had been respectful of them, and the Black matriarch would surely have known if they were blood traitors. “But what of your—”  
“Family? We value blood yes, but by the time he told me what he was I was half way in love, and an Addamus doesn’t love lightly. Once we begin, it takes a death to end it, and sometimes not even that will. My family value me, and they have accepted him because of it.” she said, and Gellert fell silent. Nothing like that would have happened anywhere else in magical Europe. Not in high society at least, though England was split into almost two separate cultures and one of them would have been more than fine with it. “He is exempt from such prejudices now.” Added Reverentia, evidently mistaking his silence for confusion.   
“I’m glad for you then, that your family is so loving. I know of no other who would be treated the same way with the kind of influential family you have.” He said, kicking himself for partially revealing the ignoble state of his own family before he realised that if Reverentia was willing to publicly involve herself with a muggleborn he didn't need to worry about what she would think of his family line.   
“So am I, though you’ll have to keep your partner, Albus isn’t it?” Gellert nodded and she went on. “A bit quiet about it when he arrives.”   
“Arrives?” Asked Gellert faintly, and Reverentia smiled.   
“Well of course, you’ll want to spend your solstice with him, no? I wouldn’t dream of not inviting him.” Gellert sighed internally, thanking her for the thoughtful action, all the while wondering what Albus would say to such an invitation. 

That evening Gellert pulled out his two way mirror and sat for a long time in front of it without saying the spell, wondering what he should do. He didn’t want Albus to spend Yule alone, but he had too many recent and painful memories of Albus’ reaction to his darker side to think it would be a good idea to invite him here, to the household of the darkest family in Italy. In the end he decided to simply ask Albus what he was planning, and then break the news gently that he wouldn’t be able to make it to whatever he had planned. If Albus pressed for details, Gellert would explain, but hopefully it wouldn’t come to that.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello guys, 
> 
> I know, I know, I'm breaking my promises again! I did warn you that it would be summer before an update arrived, and you have Covid-19 to thank for this early update. Britain has just gone into lockdown so I've got all the time in the world to write. We are living through a historic tragedy, and I hope that in some small way this (admittedly fairly short) update will bring some joy to all of you in these troubled times. 
> 
> As always, I'd appreciate comments on how the chapter went. I know it's a bit short, but I am getting back into the rhythm of the story and setting up some plot threads for the following chapter. Have I lost my touch in the time I've been away? 
> 
> I hope to update again by the end of the week at MOST, so keep an eye out for it. 
> 
> Happy reading,  
> Frumion.


	16. Saturnalia Celebrations

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Gellert and Vinda explore the Addamus mansion, make some interesting new friends and form an important alliance.

“Where are you? You’ve moved the mirror.” asked Gellert.  
“I had a flash of inspiration and had to verify it in the Lab but I didn’t want to miss a chance to talk to you.” replied Albus by way of greeting, and Gellert laughed, a glow of warmth welling up inside him. Somewhere in the distance he heard a crash that echoed through the manor and frowned, wondering what had attacked Vinda this time before attempting to smooth out his worried expression. He didn’t quite manage it, and Albus came closer to the mirror, peering into the glass in confusion. “You’re somewhere new too. Italy isn’t it? How’s everything going over there?”   
“Well. My hosts expect you to come for Yule but don’t worry, I’ll let them know you're doing research.” Said Gellert, neatly solving the problem he’d anticipated earlier without having to have any awkward conversations about differing cultures and the use of dark magic.  
“Thanks. I think I’m close to another use for dragons blood so I couldn’t possibly leave the lab—” began Albus before cutting himself off and breaking into a wide mischievous smile. “Why are they expecting me?”   
“Well we are in a relationship you know,” replied Gellert playfully, “Hopefully it’s not too much of a leap of logic for you to deduce that they would invite you as a matter of courtesy.”   
“But they’d have no reason to know that, would they? Unless of course you can’t resist talking about us. I think you’ve been bringing me up in conversation again.” said Albus, ignoring the dig and letting a teasing grin light up his face. “Have you been missing me?” Gellert had been about to deny the obvious truth when he noticed.  
“Albus, your potion is bubbling over.” There was a flurry of motion in the looking glass as Albus swore and leapt back, holding his sleeve over his nose and mouth while flicking his wand in the motion required for a bubblehead charm. After a moment’s silence he moved once more, this time performing what Gellert thought he recognised as a modified stasis spell.  
“Listen Gel, I’ve got to deal with this.” he said, his voice slightly distorted through the charm, and Gellert shook his head fondly. For all of Albus’ genius, he could be the most forgetful person Gellert had ever met.   
“Of course. And next time don’t bring the mirror to the lab, I’m clearly far too much of a distraction for you.” He said with a wink, Albus laughing as he ended the charm and faded into a reflection of Gellert’ face in the now reflective surface of the mirror. 

As Gellert woke on the morning of the solstice there was an odd smell in the air, and for a moment he couldn’t place it before he recognised it as melting beeswax. Poking his head out of the hangings around his bed proved his theory correct, and he let a gleeful smile take shape on his face. The Saturnalia celebrations had already begun. 

Adriano intercepted Gellert and Vinda as they made their way to the usual breakfast room, an almost manic gleam in his eyes as he beckoned them towards a different door. Saturnalia had dawned bright and warm, though Adriano had been wrapping in ever more ridiculous quantities of layers over the preceding week, something which Vinda and Gellert had both been teasing him mercilessly for as they made their way down the winding staircase towards a part of the mansion they’d never been shown to before. The long trestle tables of the hall were practically groaning under the weight of the feast they were holding up, every food imaginable represented in the spread as Gellert took it all in, wide eyed. The chairs they were used to had been replaced with rather more ornate sofas in a soft forest green velvet, and as they were ushered towards the other end of the room Gellert scanned the packed table for Reverentia. She was sitting near the centre of the table wearing a beautiful dress that rustled with the suggestion of autumn leaves in every shade of brown, and even Gellert could see how radiant she looked today. He looked sideways at Adriano, half expecting him to look lovestruck and unsurprised to find a soft expression on his face. There was nothing of the cutting young man Gellert knew in his eyes, no cruelty in the simple curve of his lips, and it almost felt like an intrusion to look at him now. At such a deeply personal moment Gellert felt like an interloper for being there, and he uncomfortably shifted his gaze to Vinda, who was turning away to examine one of the decorative wreaths floating above the table at intervals of a few feet. 

The three of them joined Reverentia, Adriano still wearing that expression of his that suggested a passion so bright it almost hurt to look at directly, but no sooner had they sat down than an owl approached. The screech was struggling with the weight of it’s parcel, and as soon as it had landed in front of Vinda it keeled over in a dead faint. Gellert tilted his head quizzically, wondering who had been so intent on getting a present to Vinda that they would half kill an owl to get it to them at this hour. Vinda herself reached for the parcel with a put upon sigh, and Gellert opened his mouth to ask what was wrong before she lifted the lid and it all became clear. There was a lacquered box that Gellert recognised as one of the most expensive selections from Vinda’s favourite Chocolaterie in Paris, a dozen long stemmed red roses, a book on creature law and a thick envelope lying atop the flowers. “Should I dispose of this for you?” He offered, and Vinda laughed before shaking her head. Gellert’s confusion must have shown on his face because she offered a knife sharp smile and replied. “It’s from Hadrian Dirike. It would be beneficial to have his family on our side, no?” 

Gellert felt sorry for Vinda. He knew she would hate his pity, but he couldn’t quite stop himself from feeling it. The mechanical way she spoke about love, sex, manipulation all in the same tone of quiet pride, was heartbreaking. Vinda would never have what he had with Albus, what Adriano had with Reverentia. She was all smiles as she spoke of revolution, of engineering the loyalty of this man to solidify their alliance with those who would wield power within the German ministry in the next ten years, and it was all Gellert could do to keep the pity out of his voice when he replied. In the end he tried to change the subject, and Vinda, insightful, calculating, eternally composed Vinda, noticed it all. “Walk with me.” she said, beckoning him from the now almost empty breakfast table. Gellert steered their impromptu excursion towards some of the safer gardens, not wanting to be caught in one of the carnivorous plants while they were so distracted. Once they had walked far enough that they were sure they would not be overheard, Vinda threw up an anti-eavesdropping ward for good measure and sat down on one of the many benches half concealed by beautiful hedges of wildflowers that were dotted throughout the ornamental gardens. “You’re upset.” she said bluntly. 

“A bit.” replied Gellert, knowing that it would be useless to try and lie to someone who knew him as well as she did.   
“Why?”   
“It’s just that, well I suppose—” he began, not sure how to phrase his pity, but Vinda saved him the trouble.   
“You feel sorry for me because of how I see romantic love.”   
“Yes.”   
“You shouldn’t.” She said shortly, and Gellert frowned.   
“But a life without love, that’s terrible.” he exclaimed, Vinda looking at him for a long moment of silence before she burst into laughter.   
“You mean what you and your precious Albus have, don’t you?” She managed, not pausing for an answer before speaking again. “Gellert, I never want that kind of love. It’s a form of madness, even you should be able to see that. I don't feel it, and I’m happy that way. Besides, I do know love. I love, Bathilda, you, our mother.” A warm glow began in Gellert’s chest as he let his fears fall away, the phrase ‘our mother’ ringing in his ears as he smiled brightly. Vinda was her own person, and who was he to say how she should feel.   
“Well then. Tell me more about this scheme of yours involving this Dirike fellow.” he said, his smile taking on a slight edge as Vinda laughed, something in her posture relaxing as she began to explain how her involvement with the younger Dirike brother would shape Germany’s political landscape in their favour as they made their way back towards the Manor. 

As the afternoon progressed the celebrations had moved to a room that was rivalled by only Black Manor in it’s grandeur. Vinda had delightedly identified a spun floor that was clearly made for dancing as they walked in, turning to Gellert who could only oblige her. They danced a few traditional pieces, a more modern Italian dance Vinda loved and then some very technical pieces when the music picked up speed, but it was Reverentia and Adriano that truly stole the show. All of a sudden the drums were pulsing to a rhythm Gellert couldn’t quite discern and everyone save their two friends was hurrying off the stage, so Gellert and Vinda settled at the edge of the dance floor to watch the Saturnalian tradition. It was like nothing Gellert had ever seen. The Strastnaya was a fast, sensual dance that transported Gellert completely as sparks danced across the floor from the metal heels of Adriano’s soft leather boots. The music echoed through the now silent room, and Gellert could no longer tell if the two of them were dancing or fighting, silver blades appearing in both their hands as they moved as one being of pure passion. It was incredible, and even as the music slowed to it’s final stanza and their blades disappeared Gellert couldn’t quite release the breath he’d been holding. He needed to learn that dance. 

The sun had long set when Gellert was roped into playing Brigands by three of Reverentia’s cousins, an interesting game that seemed to involve gambling large sums of galleons on the positions of pieces of glowing glass in varying colours. He had been most disappointed to discover that whatever the Strastnaya dance entailed, it was a closely guarded family secret that would only be revealed if he was bonded to someone born into the Addamus clan. As he was spoken for, he could never learn it, so he had contented himself with sampling the beautiful selection of wines that had been brought out and learning how to win traditional Italian gambling games. He’d been under the impression that Brigands was a game of chance at first, but as the second round progressed Gellert had begun to notice the patterns, and after that they didn’t stand a chance. It was a game of pure strategy played with bluffs and mathematics, two of his strong suits, and if Gellert didn’t know the rules? Well it wasn’t his fault. Any slight cheating could be explained away, and he soon found himself winning back what he had lost in the first round fivefold. The three cousins he’d been playing with quickly grew bitter at his winning streak and politely declined a sixth match, so Gellert headed to a different table to try his luck again. 

The following morning Gellert woke with only one thought on his mind. There was probably a library here. Banishing the stale aftertaste of yesterday’s revelry from his mouth, Gellert smiled and checked that his winnings were still in his trunk before returning to the idea of finding the library. The Manor was certainly large enough to warrant one, and he’d been meaning to ask for days, but with all of the narrow escapes from death and Saturnalia festivities he’d completely forgotten. Getting dressed, Gellert ignored the delicious smells of fresh breads and cinnamon pastries issuing from the kitchens despite the early morning and muttered a point me spell. 

There must have been some anti-direction spell ward woven into the wards surrounding the manor, because when Gellert finally arrived at the Library on the fourth floor he had climbed precisely seventeen staircases, had to actually climb around the outside of the house for a few meters, crawled through a very tight corridor that looked to be the house elf quarters and waded through a very shallow underground lake, but he was there. The door seemed to actively fight being moved, but with a screech of rusting metal it gave way, and Gellert found himself in the library. Dust coated everything, the uncanny feeling of being watched sending Gellert’s hand to his wand almost instantly as he swore quietly, wondering where this infernal house had brought him now. True, it looked like a disused library, but here in the Addamus Mansion that meant nothing. Taking a single step into the room, he raised his wand in a Rothenburg defence stance and readied himself for an attack, the eery silence bothering Gellert more with every passing moment, but another step yielded the same lack of results, and Gellert decided that it was safe enough to get closer to the shelves. 

Titles like ‘The Darkened Hand’ and ‘Artes Arcane’ leapt out at him, books he’d heard of that were thought to have been expunged from wizarding history in the second great purge were sat on the library shelf as if they had every right to be there. Gellert reached for Artes Arcane, his fingers trembling as he made contact with a book that predated the Byzantine empire. He’d only heard vague mention of in even the darkest books in the Third Of Three’s shop, and now he could reach out and touch a copy. As he vanished the dust with a simple thought the feeling of being observed grew, and Gellert looked back to the shelf to find watchful black eyes staring back at him from the gap in the row of books he’d just created. The creature was small, perhaps a little larger than Lamellar, and yet Gellert was wary. Its eyes were deep pools of black that looked almost like ink, it’s skin an odd shade of ivory, and if Gellert didn’t know any better he would insist it was a dragon. It was too small, he thought hopefully, to be a dragon. Wasn’t the smallest breed fourteen feet long? Desperately trying to dredge up everything he’d ever read about dragons, which, now that he might be being faced with one, he realised was not nearly enough, he readied his wand to do something, but then it moved. He froze, locking eyes with the creature as it opened its mouth to reveal black gums and three rows of shining white canines, and hoped against hope that it was merely yawning. It was only as thick as his arm, and as it slithered towards him Gellert saw that it had no back legs and three sets of wings, the largest nearest it’s head. A memory stirred in the back of Gellert’s mind, something to do with a dragon’s eyes being a weak point, but as a smile stretched across his face and he readied his wand a chilling thought occurred. What if that wasn’t the only one in here? He couldn’t risk it. Lowering his wand, he backed away slowly while maintaining eye contact and trying to convey that he wasn’t a threat. He snapped his fingers, conjuring a comfortable armchair without a sound, hoping absently that he hadn’t startled the little creature as he sat down and began to read. 

Gellert summoned food a few hours later without even lifting his gaze from Artes Arcane, not noticing the three rows of indents in the four bite marks in his Focaccia made by his library companions as he ate, too wrapped up in the tale of what was known as The Last Stand Of The Life Bringer. Necromancy. It fascinated Gellert as much as it repelled him, and that tantalising idea of mastering death floated towards him once more in the half light of the dusty room as he rolled the elder wand back and forth across the arm of the chair. Could he do it? He turned a page and wondered how this Life Bringer had first encountered the idea of Necromancy. Was it considered the black arte people thought it today? Night fell and Gellert read on, too entranced to bother finding out if the creatures would let him leave the room with one of their books. He summoned more food when the pangs of hunger grew too strong to ignore and continued to read, his wand emitting the only light in the room. He didn’t see the way the shadows at the edge of his little pool of wand light writhed, the serpentine motion of the many guardians of the library going unnoticed as Gellert became more familiar with the three main schools of thought within Necromancy. 

He was sitting in a pool of daylight the following afternoon, reference books scattered around his chair as he perused the last of the books on Necromancy, this one dealing with the exchanging of a machine’s insides for an animal’s heart to bring it it life, and it was fascinating. He jotted another note down in the notebook he’d conjured before returning to the text. At last he reached the final page of his most recent read, his mind swirling with conflicting theories about what death meant, and how healing could be used to animate a corpse. He slowly came to the realisation that there was a warm weight on his lap and something heavy draped around his neck. Trying to keep his breathing steady, Gellert turned his head a little to the side, came face to face with one of the strange possibly draconian creatures of the library and fought not to scream. A slight movement by his feet revealed a third of the things wrapped around his ankles, and Gellert laughed quietly. Lamellar did that all the time, and this creature was looking up at him just as expectantly. He found that the familiar action had washed away his fear of the little beasts entirely. Looking down at the one on his lap, he smiled to himself and went through the motions of petting it as if it were a cat, carefully avoiding the potentially poisonous spikes along it’s spine. 

“What are you I wonder?” He muttered quietly, jumping as the creature around his neck launched itself away from him, taking to the air in a flurry of wingbeats that sounded like the turning of pages in the silence of the room. The thing returned, a book clutched in its talons, and as soon as Gellert saw the title he did a double take. ‘Wyverns, Drakes And Other Lesser Dragon Species’ They could understand him. Gellert had been under the impression that only Parselmouths could communicate with dragonkind, but evidently that wasn’t true of these odd little things, and he reached for the book, curious. As his hands closed around the book the little creature hissed and spread its wings menacingly, Gellert shooting a nervous look at it as it placed the book down on the arm of his chair and retreated. He reached for it again, worried that he’d angered the denizens of the library, and looked back at the creature, even more puzzled as it did nothing now. 

Scanning the contents page, Gellert wondered idly if he ought to have studied magical creatures for one of his school electives, the list of dragon species meaning nothing to him, and flicked through the book at random looking for anything that matched the description of the creatures he was surrounded by. Frustrated, he closed his eyes and focused on the information he wanted, trusting his raw magic to bring him to the right place. ‘Bookwyverns.’ He turned the page to find a sketch of the characteristic black eyes and pale colouring of the little wyverns that surrounded him, and then felt a glow of warmth in his chest. Albus was here. 

Gellert swore, returning the piles of necromantic texts to their shelves with a thought and then shaking his head. It was obvious which books he’d been reading, the layers of dust on all of the others telling the tale of his research binge, so after taking a deep breath Gellert vanished all of the dust, hoping that his invasion of the wyverns’ nest would go unavenged as the warmth of the bond grew stronger, bright edged nausea pulling at his mind for the deception. Gellert fought back his nausea, carefully scooping up the wyvern in his lap and trying to communicate to it that he needed to stand up now, to no avail. It dug its claws into his jumper, hanging onto him and wrapping the coils of its body around his midsection as he stood, so he gave it up as a lost cause and walked towards the door. It swung open before he could reach it, and Gellert smiled, transported back through time for a fraction of a second as Albus was once more silhouetted in an open doorway, light pouring in from behind him as he had been on that fateful summer afternoon when they had first met. Vinda crashed into the room behind him, followed by Reverentia and Adriano. “Albus?” He said, still wondering why he was there.   
“We didn’t know where you were.” said Vinda, as if that explained anything.   
“They thought I’d be able to help.” Said Albus affectionately, and Gellert smiled in return, his panic carefully locked behind a loving expression that he let pool in his eyes and lightly curve his lips into a smile. As Albus stepped into the room the wyverns began to rustle, their language the sound of crumpling paper and the soft turning of a page, made wrathful by the shimmer of bloodlust Gellert could feel rising in the room. As the whispers grew, he began to discern the word they were saying, and with sudden understanding he leapt to Albus’ side, wand raised in the simplest physical boundary shield he knew. They were saying ‘Luminis’. Of Light. Albus was in danger.   
“Albus,” he said, careful not to agitate the wyverns as he threw up an invisible shield. “We need to leave right now.” The fear pulsing through his blood was all the explanation his lover needed, the two of them backing out of the room as the rustling of the bookwyverns reached a fever pitch. 

He slammed the door and took Albus’ hand, reassuring himself that his lover was safe as he threw an apologetic glance towards the others as he did so. “I didn’t mean to be gone so long. I’m sorry you worried.”   
“I should have known you’d find the lost library. Which of the artes did you—” began Reverentia, but Vinda shot her an icy look and interrupted.   
“We’re all glad you’ve been found Gellert, and we have you to thank for that,” here she nodded to Albus with a smile, looking for all the world as if she thought of his as family, and Gellert gave her an internal round of applause for her acting skills. Reverentia seemed impressed too, and Gellert had to bite back a laugh at the whole scenario, suddenly unable to miss the hilarity of it all. Here they all were, each pretending a different thing, and everybody knew it.   
“It was my pleasure. I’m glad to have met you all, though I should really be getting back to my laboratory now that we’ve got our Gellert back.” Replied Albus just as sunnily, ribbons of distaste curling through the bond as he said it.   
“Stay a while, for dinner perhaps.” Suggested Adriano, and Gellert felt a frisson of fear echo down the bond. He turned to face his lover, confused, and saw the flicker of masks Albus offered up, unable to see anything but apologetic refusal in his lover’s eyes despite the misplaced emotions he could feel echoing through his chest.   
“I’m afraid I have pressing experiments that won’t stabilise for long. I’m already pushing the limit of my most powerful stasis charms as it is. Some other time perhaps.” Albus replied, and Gellert smiled fondly at the crack of apparition, helplessly charmed by his lover’s abrupt departure, the action so characteristic of them both that he couldn’t quite resent Albus for it. 

“Sorry about Albus’ poor manners. He’s just as bad as Gellert sometimes, disappearing for weeks on end on the hunt for the next magical breakthrough.” said Vinda to the Italians, her mask of fondness not slipping the slightest inch, and Gellert slid a grateful arm around her shoulders. Vinda smiled up at him a little sadly, Reverentia tilting her head to one side in confusion as Gellert pulled his oldest friend close in a thankful one-armed hug. Reverentia opened the library door once more and Gellert poked his head in, frowning as the bookwyverns became a little more agitated, his magic obviously still too reminiscent of his other half for them to calm entirely. There was a moment of silence, Gellert making a conscious effort to let his more destructive magic ripple to the surface of his body in an effort to quiet the little creatures. He smiled tightly, allowing himself to breathe a sigh of relief as the little wyverns calmed down as Albus’ magical signature faded as Gellert pushed a light joy down the bond, wiping away the last tendrils of the harshly light magic Albus had left in his wake while using the bond to find him.   
“He’d blindingly light. Why would you choose him?” Adriano’s question was quiet, yet it echoed through Gellert with a strange weight. Half a dozen things about Albus instantly came to mind, but Gellert bit his lip, wanting to ensure that their alliance continued, smiling cruelly as he remembered something Reverentia had said a few days previously.   
“You don’t choose who you love.” The words left a bitter taste in his mouth, and he felt a pang off hurt emanating from his chest, but Adriano had flinched, the subtle dig evidently hitting a little close to home, so Gellert felt that the deception was worth it. 

Reverentia conjured three chairs with a muttered spell and they sat down, the odd smell of the room the only suggestion of countless undisturbed years as Vinda sent glowing white lights to illuminate the edges of the room. “The real question here is, of course, how on earth did you manage to find the lost library.” Said Adriano, evidently keen to change the subject.   
“A point me charm.” replied Gellert easily, sharing a quick glance with Vinda as their hosts spluttered in disbelief. Laughing, Vinda got up and walked over to the shelves as Gellert explained that yes, it was honestly nothing more than a point me spell, and that no, he hadn’t beed directed to the main library by it. One of the wyverns chose that moment to land on Gellert’s head, it’s tail coiling happily over his shoulders as it got comfortable, Gellert doing his best to keep still as it did so. Soon Vinda and Reverentia were having an animated discussion about how sweet the bookwyverns were, none of Gellert’s friends lifting a finger to help him disentangle the persistent little animal from his now ruined hair. The four of them were sitting comfortably among the forbidden texts without a care in the world, and not for the first time Gellert wished Albus was a little less muggle minded about magic. It wasn’t his fault how he’d been brought up, but Gellert was running out of patience with that as an excuse. They were grown men, surely it wouldn’t kill Albus to broaden his horizons a little. 

After that day in the library, Gellert could have sworn that the house was less actively murderous towards them. True, they had only narrowly evaded falling down a deceptive set of stairs that turned out to move of their own accord, but Gellert felt that something had changed. He attempted to ask Adriano about it, wondering if he’d had as much trouble before the house, which Gellert was growing more certain by the day was sentient, had accepted him, but to no avail. Adriano would reveal nothing of how the house worked, saying that it wasn’t his place to explain, and Gellert was growing steadily more curious. He spent days in the lost library, which seemed to move around the house, as he’d been sent on a different route by his point me spells every time he’d tried to get there, searching for answers, but found nothing that would explain the magic of the house. The main library too yielded nothing, thought it proved to be a truly awe inspiring repository of knowledge despite this, which Gellert had found it hard to leave as soon as he’d been shown the proper way to get there by Adriano after his little adventure in the lost one, and he and Vinda had happily passed several days there doing research. 

On the final night of their stay, Gellert had been forced to admit that he still knew nothing about the house, and had been commiserating with Vinda about it as they made their way to dinner, when Reverentia’s uncle appeared. “Gellert, Vinda, we have come to a decision.” His voice was smooth, the slide of silk over a blade’s edge, and there was an almost worrying sense of finality in his tone. “If the two of you would follow me please.” Exchanging a glance with Vinda, Gellert fell into step behind the Addamus Patriarch while subtly transfiguring his shirt into a suitably embroidered affair in ivory on white. They were directed into two comfortable arm chairs by the fireplace of yet another book lined room, and it wasn’t until Marcir had poured them all a glass of orange infused summer wine that he spoke again. “You have had Reverentia’s support for quite some months now,” he said, taking a draft of wine as he cast an evaluative eye over the two of them. “And now, you have the support of the Addamus family too.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry it took so unreasonably long to update. I have been busy writing something else which is entirely my own, so this chapter languished, unfinished in my computer for days before I got around to finishing it. One of the issues with this one was structure, and I ended up moving 2000 words over into the next chapter, so that one at least should be up pretty quickly. 
> 
> What did you think? How did you feel? As always comments would be much appreciated, and are a lovely incentive to update faster. 
> 
> Happy reading,   
> Frumion.


	17. The Professor's Gift.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Albus is both a nightmare and a wonder, Gellert's movement begins to take shape and an old friend returns to offer one last lesson to a favourite pupil.

The night they left Italy, Gellert slipped out of his bed and sent a quick note to Vinda’s bedside table telling her where he was going before creeping down to the floo room and murmuring Albus’ London address into the green flames. He’d been feeling odd stabs of sadness all day and couldn’t settle to anything, and he wanted an explanation. Albus was standing in his kitchen, hands wrapped around a mug that Gellert had assumed was tea before he got close enough to smell the strong firewhiskey on his lover’s breath. He wrapped his arms around Albus from behind, leaning down to kiss the patch of skin just below his lover’s jaw only to freeze as Albus shrugged him off. “Albus?” he asked, trying to push some sense of warmth down the bond and coming up short when he met a barrier of cool indifference beneath the drunken confusion. “What’s wrong?”  
“You don’t choose who you love? You wouldn’t have chosen me?” There was hurt lurking beneath the slur of the firewhiskey, and Gellert almost felt bad before reminding himself that he’d meant none of it. Albus shouldn’t have been eavesdropping with the bond anyway, and Gellert could hardly be blamed if he didn't like what he heard.  
“Of course I would have you fool,” he said affectionately, “I was just being political about it.”  
“Political. Everything is so political for you.” said Albus, the alcohol blurring the edges of all of his words as his voice grew louder. “Do you even have a face beneath all of the masks you wear?” Gellert felt his heart sink. What was it that Imari always said? A drunk man’s words are a sober man’s thoughts. As Gellert fought not to cry he found himself returning Albus’ cutting condemnations with his own.  
“You think I wear masks? At least I can admit that I love you without looking over my shoulder to make sure no one overheard it.” Albus said nothing to that, merely topping up his mug and taking another long draft of the alcohol, and Gellert rolled his eyes. “Give that here.” he said, making a grab for the cup and successfully wrestling it from Albus’ grip. He’d been on the point of vanishing the mug and its contents when he thought better of it, draining what was left in the mug and summoning the half empty bottle from where it was sitting on the counter top. “I’m taking this, and I’m going home. It’s the least you can do.”  
“Stay.” It took a single word to stop him in his tracks, and Gellert closed his eyes, some the anger of the previous moment receding like a tide as Albus reached out for him, his words less slurred as Gellert’s fading anger echoed down the bond towards him. 

At some point they'd dispensed with their clothes, the scattered trail of shirts and socks leading from the kitchen to the bedroom left behind unthinkingly as they fell into bed together, hands clumsy with the firewhiskey. “I’m sorry.” Those weren't the words Gellert had been expecting from Albus, and he didn’t quite know how to reply, not exactly sure what his lover was apologising for. It could be anything, after all Albus did feel the need to apologise over every perceived slight, however small. Gellert shifted, uncomfortable with the conversational tone in his lover’s voice and decided that to be quite honest, he’d rather have another drink than ask for clarification. Gellert wriggled out of his lover’s tight embrace to get the now almost empty bottle of firewhiskey, but Albus pulled Gellert back onto the bed, not best pleased by Gellert’s attempt to deflect his words. 

With a sigh, Gellert turned to face him and offered a mischievous smile. “Your sorry, we’re both drunk and I want sex.” it was blunt, his eloquence disappearing in the face of a mixture of inebriation and lust, and Albus pulled him into a deep kiss in response. Albus rolled them over so that he was on top as he ended their kiss, gasping for breath as he pushed two fingers into Gellert, impatient. Gellert moaned as Albus found his sweet spot, the burn of the stretch fading slightly in the wake of his pleasure. The glow of his lover’s fingertips was the only source of light in the room as Albus replaced finger’s with cock, Gellert hissing sharply, the lack of preparation hurting despite the lubrication his magic had provided for the occasion. “Hey.” He snapped, a harsh expression twisting his face as he met Albus’ eyes, half lidded in the quasi-darkness despite Gellert’s pain, and shoved him away.  
“What?” said Albus, dazed with a mixture of drunkenness and lust, and Gellert scoffed, not willing to believe that his lover was drunk enough for his reasoning powers to have vanished entirely.  
“You’re hurting me you bastard. Slow down a bit.” He said, the glow in the room fading as Albus’ eyes went wide, some of the alcohol induced haze disappearing to be replaced with guilt. He snapped his fingers, the candles in the room flaring up and bathing Albus’ apologetic expression in gold toned light.  
“I’m so sorry Gel. I—”  
“Yeah.” Replied Gellert, interrupting what he was sure would have been another eloquent apology, suddenly exhausted by it all and definitely no longer in the mood. “You probably owe me that at least.” Reaching for his wand, he thought a quick healing charm for himself and sighed, his pain fading away and taking a little of his anger with it. “We shouldn’t have tried this when you were this drunk.”  
“Maybe not.” Replied his lover, something about his tone suddenly striking Gellert as a little ridiculous. He laughed, allowing Albus to kiss the corner of his mouth and murmur soft apologies as he summoned the firewhiskey. Albus met his gaze, the crystal blue as beautiful as ever in the soft candle light and Gellert kissed him again, tasting nothing but the whiskey on his tongue. 

As their lips met again Gellert’s eye flared, Albus disappearing as light burst across his vision, cities burning once more in his minds eye. A house imploded, wooden spikes hanging, suspended in a wide sphere around the epicentre of the spell before falling back towards it as the blast echoed in Gellert’s mind. Ash fell like snow and Gellert felt fingers tangle in his own. Stone and metal bent and warped around him as buildings rose, a city that scraped the sky being reborn around them both. Gellert turned, compelled to do so by his lover’s fading fingers, and caught a glimpse of Albus fading away into silver mist before him. Gellert shuddered, his eyes refocussing on the present as the real Albus nipped his lower lip harder than he’d been expecting, and wondered if his lover had even noticed that he’d just had a vision.  
“What did you see?” murmured Albus as they parted, and Gellert smiled. Of course he’d noticed, drunk or not, it was still Albus.  
“I saw us rebuilding a city, a phoenix song of new life.”  
“That sounds beautiful.”  
“It will be.” Replied Gellert before pulling Albus in for another kiss. 

When Gellert woke the following morning he was alone, but even as he narrowed his eyes in displeasure Albus returned, a plate of something delicious smelling floating beside him. “Morning.” Said Albus, a smile on his face that lingered somewhere between hope and worry as Gellert sat up. “Have you ever tried maple syrup?”  
“Oh dear, not another of your disastrous sweets I hope.” Said Gellert, his tone apprehensive.  
“No no, don’t worry. It’s a sweet syrup from Canada. It’s brilliant.”  
“Yes, but you also said that about acid pops and cockroach clusters love, and both of those were absolutely vile.” He pointed out, and Albus grinned, entirely unrepentant. Gellert looked at what was on the plate suspiciously, but it did at least look like a pancake, and surely even Albus couldn’t find some way to bastardise such an unassuming food. He still hadn’t quite forgiven Albus for cockroach clusters, a horrifying experience that Albus apparently found some way to enjoy, but he nonetheless took a tentative bite, a smile spreading across his face as he tasted the breakfast. It was brilliant.  
“Can you accept my apology?” said Albus, and Gellert grinned, pulling the plate towards him and cutting off another large chunk of pancake. He hadn’t forgotten Albus’ drunken accusations, but Gellert wasn’t willing to get into that when the sunlight was streaming through his lover’s windows and the taste of maple syrup was thick on his tongue. After all, he had no idea if Albus even remembered what he’d said last night, and if he didn’t there was really no need to remind him of it. He smiled, letting the warmth of the love curling through their bond push his reservations to one side.  
“How could I not? This is genius, easily the best thing you’ve ever done for me.” He said, and something in Albus’ posture relaxed, tension that Gellert hadn’t spotted dissipating as Albus met his eyes and smiled widely, laughter dancing in his eyes as he replied.  
“And here I was thinking it was my mind you loved me for.” 

Gellert had meant to return to Paris as soon as he’d finished breakfast, but he found himself agreeing to pop in at The Raven’s Nest first, half hoping that his old arithmancy professor would be there. He was sadly disappointed on that front, but with a cup of steaming coffee and a very familiar question written on the debate board he couldn’t hold back his smile. “Al, look.” He muttered, his lover following his gaze and breaking into a prideful smile. ‘The statute of secrecy?’ Was written on the board here, and Gellert grinned at the thought that even here in England the question lingered in people’s minds. The handwriting was steeply slanting, practically illegible through all of the flourishes and curlicues, and vaguely familiar, but he couldn’t quite place it. People were finally asking the important questions. Levitating some chalk, he began to refute the more negative points that had been written up underneath his question, not bothering to disguise his handwriting as his ideas sprawled forth onto the slate for all to see.  
“Mr Grindelwald?” Said a voice, worryingly familiar once again, and Gellert turned to see someone he thought might have spoken to at the Black Family Samhain ball. If he was right and this wizard was a friend of the black family, Gellert shuddered at what he must be thinking of his much much more casual attire, but if his practically scandalous appearance had shocked the other wizard he made no show of it. “I was wondering when you’d be here next. Was the question on the board you?” He laughed and gave a short bow, deep enough to be considered polite but not subservient, knowing full well he should be able to place the man’s face.  
“I can’t say it was. I’m glad to see, however, that others are thinking along the same lines as I am in that regard.” He said, a wide smile still in place as he shook hands with the wizard he still couldn’t for the life of him put a name to. 

“Dolohov.” Said Albus shortly, Gellert breathing a sigh of relief before he registered the distaste dripping from his lover’s voice and flooding down the bond.  
“Dumbledore.” Replied his supporter, his tone equally frosted as he glanced between the two of them. “I see you’re still keeping better company than you’ve any right to.”  
“Perhaps, but you make up for that, don’t you.” replied Albus waspishly, and Gellert fought back a laugh, his humour at the situation projected down the bond to meet an old anger roaring up towards him from Albus. Eager to move on from this evidently ill-fated meeting, Gellert made up his mind to try to diffuse the tension.  
“Marion, I’m glad to have seen you, though I’m afraid I’ll have to dispute your assessment of Albus’ character. His mind, an equal to my own, is only the first of my reasons for keeping his company, his—” he’d been about to say something about the love they shared, but remembered all too well how much Albus hated to mention their involvement to his acquaintances. “Contributions to transfiguration have revolutionised the subject.” Here Marion nodded, a polite smile in place that Gellert would have believed had the wizard not just insulted his lover on what seemed to be a rather personal level.  
“So,” said Albus, his tone still clipped and faintly hurt, as he met Gellert’s eyes. “How do the two of you know each other?”  
“We met at the Black Family Samhain Ball last autumn.” said Gellert, not wanting to give Marion another opportunity to insult his lover. He felt a stab of something like jealousy through the bond but it was quickly smothered as Albus smiled tightly and moved the conversation back towards the debate surrounding the statute of secrecy. 

They stayed for long enough to gather a small crowd to witness their debate, but Gellert could see that Albus’ facade of a good mood was wearing thin, so as the afternoon light of the short winter day began to fade they made their excuses and left, the bond twisting uncomfortably in Gellert’s chest, though he had no idea why. As they walked down Diagonally Gellert felt trouble brewing on Albus’ side of the bond, a dangerous combination of hurt and jealousy fading in and out of his mind as Albus fought to remain calm. “You know that I love you.” Said Albus, and Gellert winced internally, sensing a ‘But—’ lurking in his lover’s voice.  
“And I you. Listen Albus, I love you more than anything. The only reason I didn’t say anything to Marion was out of respect for your wishes. You know I’d tell the world if the choice were mine alone.” He smiled, Albus’ protests falling away into what he hoped was a thoughtful silence. Gellert apperated them both to a more secluded corner before pulling his lover into a deep kiss that sent sparks down his spine. He pulled away, pleased to see Albus’ eyes blown wide with lust and smiled at his lover, his expression helplessly loving.  
“I know.’ managed Albus, the words muttered into Gellert’s mouth as they fell into another kiss. “I should go, otherwise we’ll be fined for public indecency and I don’t think even we could obliviate a whole legal department.” Albus looked more than a little nervous as they parted, but there was a hint of laughter in his eyes as he did so and Gellert counted that as a victory. 

When he got back to Paris, Gellert found Vinda sitting in the kitchen with a tall wizard with mousey brown hair and elegant features he’d never met, and a smile that looked entirely genuine. She was sitting close to him, the two of them were in their own little world as he stopped short, admiring Vinda’s choice of dress and acting talent. They were sharing dinner, the image a twisted parody of the morning Gellert had had masquerading as a similar scene, and Gellert found himself feeling a little bad for the obviously smitten wizard. He coughed, the only method of polite interruption he could think of, and Vinda started, giving every appearance of being clearly surprised to find someone else in the room with the two of them. Gellert would have offered a round of applause if he’d thought up an excuse for it. “Hadrian, this is Gellert. Gellert, meet Hadrian Dirike.” Said Vinda, her tone soft with affection, and Gellert smiled at the newcomer.  
“It’s a pleasure to meet you at last. Vinda’s told me so much about you.” He replied smoothly.  
“All good I hope.” At Hadrian’s remark, Gellert pointedly didn’t meet Vinda’s eye, knowing full well that she would be just as determinedly avoiding his, the temptation to burst out laughing almost too much to resist as it was.  
“But of course,” he replied, biting back more laughter as Hadrian Dirike’s face lit up with a saccharine smile. 

By the time Hadrian had left it was late evening, and as soon as the door had shut behind him Gellert flicked up silencing wards and began to laugh. Vinda put on a scandalised expression, her act purposefully overdone, and then let herself follow suit. They whiled away the last parts of the evening exchanging stories, Gellert delightedly explaining about the debate board someone else had asked his question on, and Vinda revealing how successful her plans for Hadrian Dirike had been so far. The bells across the city tolled the witching hour, the two of them parting ways and heading to their respective rooms as the evening ended, Gellert well pleased by how their cause was progressing. 

The following day Gellert received a rather stilted letter from Marion Dolohov, and Gellert had quickly arranged a meeting with the wizard for the following week, not willing to make an enemy of the intelligent dark wizard. When the afternoon of their meeting arrived Gellert made his way to London by apparition, his outfit muted but expensive enough to be appropriate for the company of an acquaintance of the Black Family. Marion Dolohov was waiting for him at the entrance of Knockturn Alley, but though he was smiling amiably enough Gellert thought he could sense unease in his posture.Carefully removing the disillusionment charm he’d been wearing, he met Marion’s eye and smiled slightly. Soon the two of them were ensconced in one of the many booths of a strange little tea shop Marion had suggested in Knockturn Alley. “So, you have made a friend of those mudblood Dumbledores.” Said Marion as soon as Gellert had put up privacy wards, his tone almost wary as his lip curled. “Would it be an imposition to ask why?”  
“Not at all.” replied Gellert, playing for time as he marshalled his thoughts. He didn’t want Albus to overhear anything he would resent through the bond, but he couldn’t very well say anything he would approve of in a discussion with Marion, who evidently had rather strong opinions on his lover. “And please, I wouldn’t associate with all of them. The younger one is a disgrace to the name wizard.”  
“But the older. You deny no such alliance with him.”  
“I do not.” Gellert set his jaw, met Marion’s eye and smiled amiably, then ever so slowly began to raise occlumency shields up around the bond in his chest. He couldn’t risk Albus hearing the rest of this conversation. Distracted by trying to shield himself eavesdropping, the bond fighting him every step of the way, Gellert only half heard the other wizard begin to speak. 

“He is a truly brilliant man, that I will freely admit.” Marion was softer now, clearly unsure how his more extreme opinions would be taken, “He was wasted in Gryffindor with that razor sharp mind of his, but I can’t deny my surprise at your association with him, given that you speak so fondly of Cassiopeia Black. He’s hardly the sort to hold our views on magic, or at least he wasn’t at school.” Gellert wanted to explain. He wanted to talk through the complicated way he and Albus were tied together, but he couldn’t betray his lover like that. Instead he directed the conversation back towards Marion. “What was he like back then?” He asked, letting his intrigued smile smooth out into something more innocently curious, unable to resist the opportunity to hear more about Albus’ past.  
“We were two years above him, me and my friends, but everybody knew about him of course. After that mess with his father, we assumed he’d be like us.” Began Marion, a sneer in his tone that Gellert had to talk himself out of hexing him for before he replied.  
“The mess with his father?” He asked, wondering what that had to do with anything, and Marion smiled grimly.  
“Well we assumed he’d share our views on muggles. His father went to jail for killing three of them you know.”  
“I hadn’t known they died in the attack.” mused Gellert, trying not to feel too hurt that Albus hadn’t told him himself. It was none of his business after all, and who was he to expect total honesty from Albus when he himself was keeping secrets. Shaking his head a little, Gellert refocused on the conversation. “But please, continue.” 

“Of course. So, knowing what we did, my little group of friends looked out for him at first. The poor boy was sorted into Gryffindor, and with a family history like that things weren't easy for him, but he soon made a name for himself.” There was something ugly in Marion’s voice now that sounded far too much like betrayal to Gellert, and sure enough his fears were confirmed as his companion continued with his tale. “We had found a magical room on the seventh floor that became whatever you needed it to be, and it was a dark library, at least for us. We showed him, and the little rat went straight to his head of house with the information. We all got formal warnings from the light-loving bastard of a headmaster and he got publicly commended for his actions.” Gellert felt his heart sink, the situation yet another example of Albus’ irrational prejudices. Had he really been so blind to his lover’s beliefs the previous summer? As he thought that the bond twisted sickeningly, so he kept his reaction to Albus’ actions minimal, settling for a reply that was somewhat palatable to the magic binding them together.  
“The world is not made up of just people like you and I, however regrettable that might be. Albus has a following in the British wizarding community, and it is never viable to build a power base from only one material.” Gellert forced his face to twist into one of his darker smiles, vanishing the sweat on his brow that maintaining his mental shields were causing.  
Marion matched his smile, the two of them whiling away the rest of the afternoon with a much more productive exchange of information about wizarding England’s ideals and how they could be used to help shore up support. 

That evening Gellert almost confronted Albus about his lies, but couldn’t bring himself to force a conversation that could so easily blow up into a fight. He was angry, frost creeping into his blood, and it felt wrong to direct anything like that at Albus. Gellert couldn’t trust himself to keep a level head discussing Albus’ lies of omission, his mistreatment of people who’d only tried to help him, and the bond was tearing at him in a way it hadn’t since the summer before last. When he got back to Paris Vinda had taken one look at him, sighed and asked what Albus had done now. Gellert had laughed, some of the ice in his veins thawing as he explained everything to Vinda and the two of them ended the evening smiling. Vinda’s spider web of convoluted plots, plans and back up plans was comforting in it’s familiarity as he breathed out the anger clouding his mind, a thin mist the colour of dried blood obscuring his vision as they traded ideas on their many projects. 

Months flew by in a mixture of debates, interviews and leaning to duel left handed, Gellert sacrificing sleep in order to keep up with his hectic life as January melted into April and more and more people began to quietly show their support. It came slowly, cautiously, and from all sides. The black family had sent him a cloak that openly displayed their house colours in the pattern of the Hallows, a symbol he’d accidentally adopted as his own over recent weeks, in another show of support that didn’t go unnoticed by British or French pureblood society. Bartolomeo had approached the Italian healing community with the idea of integrating some muggle medicinal technique called vaccination, and while Rome had refused to consider it, his hometown had adopted the idea with much success. Honoria Malfoy had practically moved in, she and Vinda spending days catching up with what they had missed of each other’s lives before she’d begun to help with their cause. Gellert had put Albus’ past actions back where they belonged in the year they’d taken place in, and as weeks turned into months he’d been co-writing essays on everything from the cultural and magical significance of ritual magic to the future of muggle warfare with his lover as if that afternoon he’d spent with Marion had never happened, and before he knew it Beltane was upon them. 

Beltane would always be important, and it felt almost disrespectful to be writing an essay on the problems of the beast-being devision on one of the most powerful nights of the year but it had to be done. Vinda, Reverentia and Honoria had done a ritual for loyalty and power at sunset but he’d been too distracted to join them, his mind turning over the veela problem in his mind. The french ministry of magic had been more than useless, actually tightening restrictions on the veela in retaliation to the growing anger among both communities, and despite his best efforts to wield his influence there, Germany too had done nothing to help them. It was infuriating for Gellert, but there was more than his happiness at stake, and the veela were getting impatient with the slow progress. 

Gellert let his pen fall to the floor, his vision fading in and out as the witching our struck, his right eye glistening with the silvered light of the future. He watched a strange white glow fade away to nothingness as water puddled at his feet and high, melodic voices rent the air with screams. Tawny brown eyes blinked, hazy and frighteningly vacant in a heart shaped face covered in fine white scar lines that lingered in his mind’s eye a moment longer than the rest of the face had faded away. The vision changed, the burning wings of a man in flight filling the darkness with a blood red light. An arc of harsh green lightning shattered the darkness, and in that moment the man was no longer flying. He was falling. The burning man fell towards him, wreathed in flames as the nothingness around them flared into bright crackling firelight, a sickly smell of burnt flesh reaching his nostrils before the dream faded away, leaving him with a deep seated sense of unease and the taste of blood thick on his tongue. Everything could change in a split second, he thought to himself as the last echoes of Notre Dame’s bells faded into silence, and the pause between each beat of a heart contained thousands of possible futures that bloomed and died. Something was going to change soon. His eye itched with the certainty of it. 

The Saturday after Beltane saw letters flooding through his floo box. Professor Mansuro, who despite repeated attempts Gellert couldn’t quite bring himself to think of as Karim, had agreed to meet up in Germany the following evening and wanted to show him something that he apparently couldn’t say more about in a letter. Imari was somewhere in the americas apparently stirring up dissent against the anti-ritual stance of the recent government legislation, to some success according to the letter now sitting on Gellert’s desk. Things were being put in motion, and Gellert couldn’t keep the smile off his face. 

Gellert opened the door to Professor Mansuro the following morning just as Albus was leaning against the draining board draining the last of his cup of tea, his shirt only half done and a trail of love bites down his neck that Gellert had enjoyed putting there the previous evening, but was regretting now. The older man closed his eyes and sighed as he stepped into the room. “Good morning Gellert.” Gellert laughed and replied in kind, watching his lover worriedly out of the corner of his eye. Albus started, obviously noticing their company for the first time and apperated away without speaking, his whole face bright red.  
“Sorry about—” Began Gellert, but the professor’s eyes were glittering, a hand over his mouth as he attempted to disguise his laughter, so Gellert decided to stop his apology there.  
“Still involved with the Transfiguration prodigy then I see. It’s a shame he left, I think he’d be interested in what I’ve got to show you.” Gellert laughed, his curiosity overriding the slight offence he’d taken on Albus’ behalf at his old teacher’s laughter.  
“What is it then Professor?” He said, snapping his fingers and watching as a note explaining things to Albus wrote itself and neatly jumped into the floo in a burst of green flames.  
“How many times must I ask you to call me Karim?” Asked the exasperated arithmancer, blinking away his shock at the use of such dexterous wandless magic, with a wide smile.  
“At least once more Professor.” replied Gellert, a mischievous grin taking shape on his face as Albus reappeared, this time fully dressed and slightly less red in the face.  
“Hello again.” said Professor Mansuro, evidently finding Albus’ discomfort more than a little amusing. Taking pity on his lover, Gellert directed the conversation back to what exactly it was that Professor Mansuro was going to show them. “Ah.” the professor replied, unable to contain a wide smile. “Today I’m going to take you to the Library Of Alexandria.”

There was a moment of stunned silence before Gellert moved, thanking his old arithmancy professor with a crushing hug in a truly uncharacteristic display of physical affection. “Thank you.” It was quiet, muttered into his teacher’s shoulder and definitely too quiet for Albus to hear, but it was saturated with emotion. Gellert had spent years dreaming of the lost libraries but He’d never given the possibility of actually seeing them more than a moment’s thought, knowing full well that he’d probably never be invited into the last mages’ sanctum of the ancient days. The idea that it had been a very real possibility for years, that his favourite teacher could have shown him the most revered legend among magical scholars at any time he liked, was completely alien to Gellert. Gellert let go of his favourite teacher, then cracked a slightly cruel grin, wanting to make up for the raw honesty of a moment before.  
“So, why did it take you so long to tell your favourite student about actually having an invitation to The Library to end all libraries?” He asked, wondering for a moment if he’d been overly familiar with his old professor when his lighthearted joke was met with a serious expression.  
“I had to be sure.” He began, Albus’ watchful gaze forgotten as Gellert’s old professor smiled slightly, his steady gaze never leaving Gellert’s eyes, “There were times when I wondered if you were too dangerous to have access to the single biggest store of magical knowledge on the planet. Your fights with those older students, the experiment that led to your expulsion.” here he paused, a sigh escaping him that brought out the gleaming threads of silver in his closely coiled hair and emphasised the lines that many years of worry had etched into his face. “But how could I not tell you, when you turn around and create eternal fire in a matter of weeks, or develop a healing spell that reverses the cruciatus curse? You are the single best student I’ve ever taught. How could I not tell you?” 

“I hate to interrupt,” said Albus, his utter confusion clear in his tone, “But I just wanted to make sure that we were talking about the same place. Are we discussing visiting the library of Alexandria that was burnt to the ground by Julius Cesar?” The introspective moment that the professor’s words had caused was broken, Gellert shaking his head a little as he met his lover’s eye.  
“Of course. Is there another one?”  
“I think you might have missed the part where I mentioned it being burnt to the ground?” Said Albus, a look of doubt on his face as he met Gellert’s eye with a searching gaze.  
“Merlin, what has Hogwarts been teaching you?” asked Professor Mansuro, Gellert failing to stifle his laughter at the older man’s expression, half a dozen insults on the tip of his tongue, but his old professor cut him off by continuing, doubtless knowing exactly what tangent Gellert had been about to lead the conversation into. “Evidently nothing of magical history. It wasn’t destroyed, just moved. After the fire the mage’s moved underground, and to this day it remains one of the most prestigious centres of learning in the magical world.” 

The desert sands were hot under foot, the sun beating down unrelentingly on the three of them as they made their way towards a vaguely familiar cliff face, but it wasn’t until Professor Mansuro, no, he probably ought to start calling his Karim now, all things considered, had traced the most complex rune Gellert had ever seen that he realised where they were. He wanted to get a closer look at the rune, but something was preventing his eyes from focussing on it, and with a start Gellert realised that he was being enchanted by what felt like magics so old they were practically elemental, the sands themselves providing a defence against unwanted observers. Albus slipped a hand into his and Gellert squeezed it tightly, to excited to even get close to speaking about it, and felt his lover return the gesture, the bond humming with their mingled emotions, the two of them waiting with baited breath as the ground began to shake. The stone citadel of his dreams rose, sand raining down from the ramparts as it gleamed a pale limestone colour in the light of the hot desert sunlight, and as one the three wizards walked towards the great arch of the entrance way. 

Stepping into the shadow of the doorway was a blessing of it’s own, the stone emanating a chill that Gellert was immeasurably grateful for as the door swung open, a woman shrouded in silk the colour of a yellowed page appearing before them as if summoned. “Mansuro, you bring two when but one was permitted.” Her voice was old beyond her years, the smooth bronze of her gleaming skin suggesting a youth that her voice did not match in the slightest.  
“A thousand apologies, dear lady of the library. I bring two because—”  
“No.” Said Gellert, unclasping the blood pact and holding it out for the librarian’s inspection. “He brings one.”  
“Two bodies, one soul.” added Albus, catching on to Gellert’s plan. The woman reached for the blood pact, Gellert pulling it out of her reach before she could touch it. The woman growled, almost bestial in her sudden anger, and Albus smiled tightly. “It’s alright Gel. She’ll only have it for a minute.” Caught in his lover’s arms, Gellert nodded, reluctantly handing over the vessel of their soul bond. When it made contact with her skin a bristling sense of wrongness rushed through Gellert, leaving him feeling somehow dirty, her every curious touch sending a shudder of disgust through him. Gellert turned away, unable to watch this stranger examine the binding of their very souls as if it were a trinket any longer, and then Albus was wrapping his arms around Gellert, his lover’s touch a comfort to him as he shook, anger and revulsion fighting for dominance behind his eyelids. Albus dropped a crown of featherlight kisses across Gellert’s brow, Gellert too thankful for the relief his lover had brought him to wonder how Albus could stand to see someone else touching their souls, and after what seemed like an eternity the woman passed the blood pact back to Albus.  
“You have made two one.” she said as Gellert recovered, the acceptance of their explanation meaning nothing to him as he felt his magic settle down. “I apologise Stormlord, but it had to be done. The two of you may enter.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Right lads, we have a problem. You lot aren't commenting, and I can't stress how much it is Hurting My Feelings. I'm starting to believe that all you want is emotional trauma, because it's all you comment on and believe me I could write in more of that if I wanted to. Consider this a threat. 
> 
> I also want to put a quick note here about healthy relationships, Vis. that this isn't one. Healthy communication is key in any relationship, something Gellert hasn't quite grasped, and it's also, you know, advisable to not keep big secrets from your significant other, something Albus isn't aware of. 
> 
> On a lighter note, I hope you enjoyed this chapter, it was a lot of fun to write. I'm trying to help anyone stuck at home during these unprecedented times by providing some escapist fiction. Leave your thoughts below if you feel like it, I think we could all use the social interaction. (By we I mean me. Give me your thoughts)


	18. Before The Storm

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Gellert meets a very odd friend of Albus', becomes much more politically active and reads letters not meant for his eyes, with unforeseen consequences.

The corridors were endless, each stone doorway carved with owls and ibises, the birds of Athena and Thoth respectively guarding the knowledge of the ages, each feather carved in minute detail. Some of the doorways emitted light, others seeping shadow and still others shifted in and out of existence. Gellert was enraptured. Feeling a tap on the shoulder, he turned to find his old professor’s face very close to his own and started, surprised by how quietly the older wizard had moved. “Two bodies, one soul? Gellert what have you done?” He whispered, and Gellert winced.   
“I’ll explain, but you’re not going to like it. It’s soul magic.” He said, and Prof —no— Karim winced.   
“More experiments? After what happened to Ladislav? Why would you do something so foolish Grindelwald?” He hissed, and then it was Gellert’s turn to wince.   
“Because I had to. Because I needed to know. Take your pick. Either way it worked.” He shot back, a smile on his face that seemed to melt his old professor’s horror a little. He turned back towards Albus, who was watching the exchange with no small amount of fondness until their guide spoke up again, distracting Gellert and his old professor from their hushed whispers.   
“Here we study knowledge for the sake of knowledge. Do not abuse this place for other purposes young one.”   
“Of course. We— I would never consider it. The knowledge you hold dear will remain in our hands as it is in yours.” Said Albus, and with a smile the strange woman inclined her head to them.   
“Then, if you would follow me I will direct you where you want to go.” 

Gellert could have spent the rest of his life in that library and died a happy man. There was a copy of every book ever written, and he wanted to read them all. As night fell, Gellert would have happily remained ensconced among the books, but Albus had different plans, and soon they were parting ways with the professor and making their way back to Albus’ place in London. As they prepared to floo home their guide explained that library had a ward system in place to hide it from those who would see it destroyed, making it Unplottable on any map, and as a result the two of them could apperate from within the library to any place they liked without shattering international border wards. Gellert was fascinated, wondering if these wards were unique to the great library and if he could put the same such wards in place in his flat in Paris, or perhaps more usefully, his research facility in the Swiss mountains. He’d been on the cusp of asking about them when Albus grabbed his hand, laughing as he apperated the two of them back to London. “There’s someone I want you to meet.” Said Albus as they reoriented themselves, and Gellert looked around, more than a little intrigued. It was perhaps odd that he met so few of Albus’ friends, but between their busy schedules and Albus’ reluctance to admit what they were to each other, Gellert had only met the unfortunately obliviated Edwin Davidson. He found himself curious, and as Albus headed for the living room without removing the arm he had casually slung around Gellert’s waist he became much more so. 

As the two of them made their way across the hall, Gellert felt his hair begin to stand on end and shot a surprised look at Albus. Whatever was in that room, and Gellert was no longer sure that it was a person, was dark. Crackling magic that tasted of the clean air of moonlit forests and felt vaguely familiar hummed over Gellert, his blood jumping as he got closer to the source of this strange new magic. The elder wand seemed to twist in his hand, it’s unique magic calling out to the thing in the next room, the same primordial force echoing across the short space as Albus shot him an excited smile. It was probably Albus’ way of admitting that he’d been far too harsh over Gellert’s first edition copy of Magick Most Evil, and Gellert was completely nonplussed as to what might be behind the door. 

Much to Gellert’s surprise, when he finally laid eyes on the source of the powerful magic all he saw was a relatively young man with brown hair that curled wildly and looked almost black in the candlelight of the room. The untamable mass of hair framed a face dominated by a crooked nose and more freckles that Gellert had ever seen on one person. The wizard was wearing deplorably shabby robes and a furtive manner who wouldn’t meet his eyes. “So,” he began, still not able to reconcile the man before him with the strange inhuman power rolling off him in waves, “Albus, are you going to introduce us?”   
“Gellert, this is Christopher Du Noir. Kit, meet my better half, Gellert Grindelwald.” Gellert couldn’t help but turn to his lover and pull the other man into a kiss. He had been acknowledged for what he was, and the glow of Albus speaking the truth of their love aloud combined with the heady dark magic in the air made his instinctual reactions rather difficult to ignore. After a kiss that was all too brief in Gellert’s mind, Albus managed to extract himself from Gellert’s embrace and found the energy to blush a brilliant crimson.   
“Should I just leave?” asked the man still seated awkwardly on the sofa. “Are you sure the two of you don’t want some time alone?” Gellert laughed even as his lover squirmed slightly and shook his head, his attention fixed once more on the interesting specimen in front of him. 

“If you don’t mind me asking,” said Gellert as the teas poured themselves out mid air courtesy of Albus, “What exactly are you?” The affectionately nicknamed ‘Kit’ blanched, looking at Albus with an expression of utter betrayal even as Gellert kicked himself for the callousness of his phrasing. “I meant no disrespect, it was rude of me to address it that way.”   
“You didn’t fucking tell him?” asked Kit roughly, completely ignoring Gellert’s niceties as he fixed Albus with a threatening look that Gellert had a strange sense he was trying to contain, and then as that hunter’s gaze flickered over him, he understood. He’d read enough about those yellow eyes to know what they meant. The man sitting beside them unassumingly drinking his tea was a werewolf.   
“Why should I have? I know him better than anyone. He won’t react badly.” Said Albus, Gellert’s realisation going unnoticed as his lover calmly sipped his tea. Albus pushed a sense of warning down the bond towards Gellert, no doubt to prepare him for the blow that he was sitting easily within the comfortable attack range of an adult werewolf, and then, observing that their companion was unlikely to offer any kind of explanation, spoke again. “Gellert, Kit’s a werewolf.”   
“Really?” asked Gellert, deciding not to let things complicate themselves by adding that he’d guessed as much as soon as he’d met the stranger’s gaze. Making sure the tone remained a suitable blend of calm, confidence and interest, Gellert let his eyes light up with every appearance of innocent curiosity. “Have you ever been to Rome?” Kit’s disbelieving spluttering at his casual response continued for some minutes, and Albus made a valiant effort to hide his laughter behind the mug of tea he was still holding, but it was more than futile.   
“What’s Rome got to do with it?” asked Kit, and this time it was Gellert’s turn to laugh.   
“Romulus and Remus?” he said, and at the blank look he received continued, a wide smile beginning to form on his face, “The werewolves of legend who founded the city? I’m surprised you’ve not heard the tale. Rome’s very accepting of Lycanthropy because of it you know. I was there quite recently and really can’t recommend it enough.” 

“How long have you been keeping this charming Christopher up your sleeve then love?” he asked as the evening wore on, to which Albus responded with a grin that he’d been so impatient to see the library that his new housemate had quite slipped his mind. “House mate?” Gellert echoed, unfamiliar with the English and fairly certain that he’d mistranslated the two root words wildly, because he was positive that the bond wouldn’t allow his only current understanding of that phrase to come to pass.   
“You know, like Vinda. You live with her, Kit’s moving in here.” explained Albus, and Gellert grinned, laughing to himself at the strange road his thoughts had meandered down, however briefly.   
“Well, I hope you’re proficient at soundproofing wards.” replied Gellert, Kit laughing along with him as Albus went red again.   
“I’m not, so I’ll have to trust Albus to remember them.”   
“Well I’m sure there’s some way to cause them to go up automatically, because we don’t have a very good track record of consistently remembering that sort of thing in, shall we say the heat of the moment.” Replied Gellert, watching Albus’ expression morph from embarrassment into a considering look that promised that a theory was taking shape behind his eyes. “But why don’t you know how to do soundproofing wards? You’re a handsome man, surely it’d be useful?” he asked, leaning his head on Albus’ shoulder with a smile as he did so, not expecting the minute flinch from Kit.   
“Its the same situation as Veela education. I’ve a ministry classification of beast so formal magical schooling is illegal, as is wand use.” 

April turned very rapidly into June as Gellert slowly but surely became a little louder about his political views. Where previously he might have charted a conversation towards neutral political waters, he would answer the reporters questions directly. Did he think that the projected British Goblin Revolt would occur? Obviously, unless someone went and did some research into goblin-wizarding relations in British society and figured out what it was that hadn’t been achieved by the last interspecies treaty. Did he think that the rising muggleborn parental abuse rates would affect the future of the wizarding economy? Well of course, unstable childhood in a mediocre muggleborn made for a future unstable non-contributor to the wizarding economy, though of course there would always be exceptions. Did he think that Germany should adopt a harder border policy with Switzerland in light of the Swiss-French treaty of that April? No, he believed that Switzerland would only be pushed further from a future alliance if those in power chose to do that. It was always phrased with the impression that it was merely an opinion piece, but Gellert heard his name in passing from time to time when out in Magical Munich, and the Stone dragon always greeted him with news of more. He was having an impact.

Fate would not allow Gellert to forget the plight of non-human people in the wizarding world, his horror at how Kit had been treated by both the Ministry and the wizarding public since he had been bitten paling in comparison to Soluna’s plight. He and Albus had found Nuuamaca sitting on the step outside his rooms, shellshocked tears still streaming down her face as she stared unseeingly towards the stairs, her eyes a sore red and her cheeks stained with the tears tracking across her dark skin. “What happened.” He asked, a cold note in his voice as he took in her dishevelled state. Albus rushed forwards to embrace her, Gellert expecting her to lash out when Albus’ arms closed around her and becoming even more concerned when she did nothing of the kind. Curled in Albus’ protective embrace, Nuuamaca hastily dried her eyes as best she could and began to explain.   
“They took Soluna.” Her eyes were dark with sorrow, and Gellert felt more ice drip into his veins.   
“They will die.” Albus looked up at him sharply before coming to some sort of decision as he looked once more between Gellert’s expression of frosted rage and Nuuamaca’s broken sobs, squaring his shoulders and nodding in agreement.   
“Who was it Nuuamaca?”   
“The aurors. She killed a man who we only just got away from before coming here. He swore he’d—” here she broke off with a shudder, but Gellert could fill in the blanks quite easily and brushed the latter part of the comment aside in favour of considering their options. Aurors. That meant a trial, but they were here in France, where the authorities had responded to the Veela’s cry for more rights with tightened restrictions, and there would be nothing like impartiality. No, there would be a trial in name only, and then there would be an execution. 

“And for that matter where’s Vinda?” asked Albus, jolting Gellert out of his musings and sending a wave of guilt through him at the idea that he’d forgotten his closest friend so easily. Sensing what he was feeling, Albus pushed a sense of warmth and determination down the bond to meet him.   
“She went with Soluna as her legal representative.” said Nuuamaca, her voice still wet with tears.   
“I didn’t know there was a possibility for that, given the disgusting way they treat Veela.” Said Albus, a frown marring his expression as he shot a worried glance over Nuuamaca’s shoulder to Gellert, who barely noticed, hardly able to hear his lover over the roaring in his ears. Vinda was in danger, openly defying the French ministry in the face of almost impossible odds. Gellert stamped out his sense of foreboding and forced a smile for Nuuamaca’s sake.   
“She’ll find precedent for releasing Soluna then, Vinda’s loved law since we were twelve and she’s brilliant.” He said, his voice steady and warm. Nuuamaca looked up, hope eclipsing the devastation clear in her expression as she ended Albus’ hug and managed a watery smile.   
“Thank you.” She said simply, and Gellert forced the smile to stay on his face as they too embraced. 

Gellert had decided to write a paper on Veela magic, and with Nuuamaca’s assistance and Albus’ co-authorship it was finished within the week. Covering things from how the allure actually worked to the arithmancy of their shape shifting, it was a study of Veela magic that Gellert hoped would help people to see that they were blameless when it came to their natures. Albus had had already given a talk at The Raven’s Nest and Gellert agreed to do a talk on their rights in both the german wizengamot and, much to Albus’ chagrin, the blood pits. The paper had gone to print already in German and English, and he’d managed to snag an interview in the prophet and two German newspapers about his opinions on Veela rights as well, but the reactions were mixed. There was a surprising amount of support coming from the Malfoys, which Vinda had half jokingly suggested was because there was veela blood in the family that no one knew about in one of her few free moments, and a fair number of Sasha’s military friends where openly backing up his ideas in Russia, but it wasn’t all good. There had been some serious backlash in the french press, and Imari had written to confirm similar feeling in America when he’d heard the news. 

It was a crying shame that Imari had buggered off to America to visit family, thought Gellert to himself as he finished the letter, because Gellert would have greatly appreciated his insight under the circumstances. In the most recent of his letters, Imari that rather harshly pointed out that it was a good thing they’d started with relatively small political shifts, because the masses clearly needed to trust him more before they attempted anything as drastic as suggesting the idea of creating a world where their society didn’t have to hide in the shadows. The handwriting suggested that the diminutive wizard had been rather drunk when he’d penned it, but Gellert could see what he meant none the less. Germany had suffered more than most during the witch hunts and, unlike Britain, it remembered. The stronger awareness of wizarding history meant that it was more of a challenge to convince the public of his cause, but it also meant that they would have much less of a problem conveying the threat muggles could pose.

Gellert was still furious with the treatment of the beast being devision in the magical world one morning a few weeks later despite the distractingly wonderful sex of the previous night, his thoughts swirling angrily as he sat in the kitchen in one of Albus’ nicer nightshirts reviewing a speech he’d prepared for the blood pits about it. He’d received a letter from Julien about some more Veela attacks in a small village in the south of France the week prior, and his speech was an effort to make sure that those allied with him at least would behave in a more acceptable manor. Vinda’s court case was progressing slowly, but it was leaching all of the energy from his closest friend and she never had time to really discuss it in depth after spending eighteen hours a day slogging though legalese ridden texts from the French legal archives. He hated the ministries. It was barbaric the way magical non-humans were treated, and Gellert had deep rooted concerns about the case that he couldn’t quite bring himself to voice to Vinda. There was trouble brewing on the horizon, and though Gellert hadn’t wanted to admit it to himself it might come to violence. He hadn’t admitted to himself that he was planning for open war initially, but watching the french ministry tighten their restrictions on Veela just for having the tenacity to demand the treatment they deserved had hardened his views on it, and despite Albus’ reassurances that it wouldn’t come to that Gellert couldn’t help but think things through. Thankfully, Gellert was already working closely with the French Veela clans and after the very public scandal of Vinda’s strong pro-veela stance they would support him to the last man standing. He thought that they could probably count on at least some of the British werewolves to side with them too if Gellert’s political takeover didn’t go as planned. 

Just as he was turning over what he had read on muggle warfare in his mind yet again, Albus walked into the kitchen dressed in what could only be described as a hideous crime against the sighted world. It was a hideous waistcoat in deep magenta with trousers to match, worn with a lemon yellow shirt which only served to create a nauseating contrast that brought out all of the worst aspects of each colour. There was also, Gellert noticed with a shudder, a paisley patterned cravat upon which the print appeared to be moving. “What,” he said faintly, blinking in the hope that this poorly dressed apparition would fade away, “Do you think you are wearing?”   
“Well I thought I’d try something a little more bold. Don’t you like it?”  
“Like it?” asked Gellert, trying to wrap his head around the idea that Albus would even ask him something like that. “No.” And with that, he flicked the elder wand in Albus’ general direction, sighing in relief as the lemon yellow faded to an inoffensive ivory and the magenta made its way through purple and blue to reach the particular shade of sea green that Gellert thought Albus looked best in. Another flick immobilised the designs on the cravat, Gellert letting it keep its patterns in the same ivory as the shirt on a much more becoming slate grey that allowed Albus’ hair and eyes to be the main focus of his appearance, both of which were complemented well by his earlier efforts with the suit.   
“How could you?” asked his lover, a cocktail of real and feigned hurt clear in his voice, and Gellert smiled.  
“I can’t very well allow you to go about blinding the general public Albus. It’s for the greater good.” he said, and for the first time since before Ariana’s death those words were met with a light smile. Walking over to his lover, Gellert pulled Albus’ face close to his by the cravat he had so recently transfigured and began a heated kiss. 

Despite the efforts Gellert had gone to to improve his lover’s appearance he was far from upset when the newly recoloured garments ended up on the floor, the waistcoat tossed aside as Albus backed him against a wall and he slid his hands trough those firebrand locks. Somehow or other Gellert’s hands came to be pinned above his head with Albus’ cravat tangled around them, and as Gellert bit a deep bruise into the underside of his lover’s jaw he felt Albus fiddling with the length of grey cloth. “How would you feel, my dear Gellert,” breathed Albus, the words hot against his skin as Gellert’ blood raced, “If this was a little tighter.” Albus’ pupils were blown wide at the suggestion, the heat of the moment stripping away all of his inhibitions, and he was at his most beautiful in moments like this.   
“How do you think?” Gellert moaned, relaxing his muscles and letting Albus’ claiming kiss push everything but the endless beauty of here and now out of his head. Albus’ hands were shaking as he twisted the cravat into place and knotted the ends securely, and that brought with it a rush of power for Gellert. This was different. Gellert was perfectly capable of evaporating the cravat with a thought, but in this sudden rush of pleasure curling through the bond there was something new, and Gellert felt strangely powerful as Albus’ arousal roared down the bond he realised that this was a side of his lover he’d seen glimpses of in the past. This was the Albus he saw in the determined set of his jaw when stuck on some arithmancy problem, in his darker solutions for the problems their world faced, and in the few times he’d seen his lover in a proper duel. It was breathtaking. 

His hands bound, Gellert wrapped his legs around Albus’ waist and allowed himself to be carried back to Albus’ bedroom, the silencing wards rippling up as Albus walked through the doorway. Albus lay Gellert down, pressing his hands down into the mattress as if to reinforce his power over the situation, and it send shivers of want through Gellert. Something about this felt very right, he thought to himself before Albus’ warm hands and dominant touch stole away any hope he had of coherence. As Albus’ fingers stretched him out Gellert made a show of testing the knots that Albus had tied, and found it made his lover slightly rougher around the edges to see him do it. Fingers were soon replaced with cock and the slow burn of being filled a little too quickly had Gellert moaning again as Albus paused, tracing his fingers over the knots tying Gellert’s hands together reverently as he became accustomed to the stretch. Then Albus began to move. There was a newfound roughness to his motions that Gellert appreciated, the joining of their bodies slick with a mixture of sweat and the substance his magic provided for such occasions as they each pulled the other towards the edge of ecstasy. In the end it was Gellert that came undone first, followed almost instantaneously by Albus, the bond looping their pleasure until Gellert’s ears sang as Albus smiled lazily in the afterglow. 

Gellert’s shoulders felt stiff, his arms uncomfortable as he brought his hands down to his chest. Making no move to undo the knots with magic, Gellert managed to entwine his fingers with Albus’, and would have remained that way quite contentedly had Albus not broken the silence. “Did you like it?”   
“What do you think?”   
“No, seriously. Did you enjoy doing that?”   
“It was one of the most intense experiences I’ve ever had.” replied Gellert honestly, before cracking a grin. “In no small part because you enjoyed it so much.” he said, clicking his fingers and watching, slightly mesmerised as the cravat unwound itself and wove its way through the air towards Albus’ laundry in a distinctly serpentine manner.   
“Would you like to—” began Albus, his eyes dark even as his cheeks flushed red once more, but Gellert interrupted.   
“Do it again? Yes. Preferably after a cup of tea, but yes.” He said, and Albus laughed.   
“After a cup of tea of all things. You can fight it all you like Gellert, but I’m afraid you're becoming an Englishman.” 

Albus had gone into the kitchen to make the promised cup of tea when the letter came. It shot through the fireplace, Gellert’s eye throbbing with a sense of foreboding as he saw the flames flare up in an emerald rush, and without quite thinking about it he’d summoned the letter. It seemed to fight against him, straining against his summoning charm in an attempt to get to Albus, and Gellert was worried. He caught the letter, it’s strange attempts to escape his charm crumbling as he touched the parchment, and turned it over to see Nicolas Flamel’s handwriting. His eye still stinging, he heard the kettle begin to whistle and started. Albus would take probably another minute to come in with the two cups of tea. Gellert bit his lip, considering his options as he heard more clanking from the kitchen. The sound of two mugs being placed on the counter. He could open the letter now and risk being caught. He thought he could probably distract Albus, his mind flitting back to what they’d spent the morning so far doing, but there was still the risk that Albus would notice the letter, the throbbing in his eye intensifying as he thought about it, and he couldn’t really take that chance. Whatever was in the letter was bad. There was a loud sound, the closing of the cold box door, which meant he had almost no time to decide. He could burn the letter, but then he wouldn’t know what was in it and that did not sit well with him. Which left the final option. 

Getting to his feet, he summoned his trousers, stuffed the letter into one of the pockets and shrugged on his shirt. With a grin, he turned the pattern on the cravat that Albus had found such an interesting use for earlier a light sunset orange and had slung it around his neck before Albus came in with the tea. The smile fell from his face as he took in Gellert’s state of dress and put down the cups. “Where are you going? I thought—”   
“I know, and I’m sorry but I’ve got to get back to France. Apparently there’s been some developments in the political landscape that can’t wait.” He said, breathing out his discomfort in a colourless cloud as the bond admonished him for his half-truths. Albus sighed, resigned to his departure, and melted into a goodbye kiss Gellert began to help distract himself from his guilt. “I’ll try to make it back this evening.” He said, before stepping back into the fireplace and being pulled through to Paris. 

Breathing a sigh of relief, Gellert pulled the letter out of his pocket and opened it, his eye still aching. He scanned down the letter and swore, taking the stairs two at a time as as he read, his blood getting colder by the second. What right did Flamel have to tell Albus of all people that his eternal flame spell had been inspired by pyromancy? What right did that foul disgrace to magic have to get between him and his lover? A roll of thunder crashed across the sky, lightning forking across the heavens as Gellert forced himself to breathe deeply, his anger dissipating slowly as he exhaled blood red rage using what Vinda had taught him. Looking back to the now rather badly singed letter, Gellert frowned. It wouldn’t be just Albus that Flamel told about this. He would go to the press, the academic world, and Gellert’s image would be ruined. All of the goodwill he’d so carefully nurtured over the past six months shattered by one far too curious alchemist with a religious axe to grind. His mind spun with the different ways he could use this to his advantage, and perhaps he could when it came to the courts or the public, but he knew that there was nothing he could say that would justify it in Albus’s eyes. A single tear tracked down his face, his breath coming in shuddering lungfuls he hardly thought worth taking. Albus. He had all but lost him again. It was only a matter of time.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So I know it's short, but you'll have to trust me that the next chapter will be worth the wait. I had no idea that the plot was going in the direction that it has, and now I have a hundred and one things to think about. I'm really inspired (and also my school have said that all the work they've been putting online is optional for my year group this term as it's our last) so updates should be faster. I'll commit to nothing more than roughly once a week however, because that inspiration I was speaking of earlier has also struck for my original writing, which is taking up a lot of my time. I've been building a world. 
> 
> What did you think of the chapter? I have to say I loved writing this one. It changed shape a few times during the creative process and I think it really moves our characters on. The stage is truly set now, and the curtain rises. As always I'd love to hear your thoughts, so please leave a comment down below, because they do genuinely make my day.


	19. How We Break

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Gellert admits several things to Albus, who reacts exactly how one might expect a man to on discovering the depth of his lover's lies, Vinda admits a terrible truth, and Ulrich Dirike finally proves his usefulness.

He and Albus had published a simple proof on automised silencing wards in early May, closely followed by an essay collection they had both written parts of on the inanity of the beast-being’s current classification of all non-humans as beasts as Gellert waited for an inevitable blow that didn’t seem to come. Their interactions took on a strangely surreal edge, each sensation heightened as Gellert fought to commit how it all felt to memory. How Albus looked in candlelight, eyes half closed after they had sex, in moonlight as Gellert moaned underneath him, in the half light of morning after they had been up all night discussing one magical theory or another. How he looked sitting at his desk, or walking down Diagonally in the afternoon sunlight of late spring, the way he looked at Gellert with nothing but radiant love in his eyes. It was never quite enough. Gellert desperately wanted to lose himself in the present, to pretend he’d never read the letter, but he could never quite put it from his mind. 

He was plagued by visions, Europe splitting apart at the seams as France and Germany were split down the middle in a tide of red. The burning man fell once again in his minds eye, a disturbingly frequent visitor as Gellert’s paranoia over Flamel grew by the day, and in his dreams he felt his hands weighed down by shackles, only to look down and be met with a binding of silk cloth, blue jasmine flowers trailing from the silver-blue silks before fire consumed them, his hands bubbling up into a mess of ruined skin. A castle loomed in the mountains, dark, forbidding and lifeless. It seemed empty, a shell containing only the memories of what could have been. He woke drenched in sweat most nights, heartbeat frantic in his chest as he took in the surroundings, Albus lying beside him regardless of the bed they had chosen to share that night, and allowed himself to take comfort in the bond, hyperaware each time that it could be the last night when Albus would be there.

Days blended into weeks as Gellert fought not to let his fear tinge what he couldn’t help but worry was the last of their time together, unable to settle to anything as he tried to think his way out of what Flamel had discovered. He couldn’t deny it when the truth did eventually come out, not when all the evidence anyone needed was in the arithmancy of his spell, and he couldn’t very well kill Nicolas Flamel. For one, Albus would feel it when he did it and would never forgive him, and for another it would be a very high profile murder that Gellert wasn’t actually sure he could successfully commit, let alone get away with. Gellert would rather chance the court of public opinion for using dark magic for research purposes than for the premeditated slaughter of a french national treasure, however disgracefully pro-religion. The answer came to him in a flash as he and Albus had been discussing Vinda’s court case, Gellert’s point dying on his lips as Albus gave him the answer he had spent so many sleepless nights wracking his brains for. “It’s the lack of witnesses that’s causing the trouble, the whole bloody thing’s become a situation of storytelling rather than facts.” he’d said it in a rare fit of pessimism, and there was a beat of silence as Gellert bit his tongue, using the pain as a distraction from his growing sense of unease, but the answer was obvious. He would have to share his story before Flamel did, take charge of the narrative and turn it into a debate about the ethics of condemning pyromancy as dark, rather than a assassination of his character. He wasn’t ready for this, his support base too shaky to take this blow now, but it had to be done. He had no other options.  
“You’re right of course.” He said, his eyes distant as plans swirled and the beginnings of an essay in his own defence began to take shape in his mind. 

It took weeks more than Gellert would have liked to write the thing fully, Albus always seeming to appear at his shoulder the minute he’d found some free time to do so, but he had it finished by mid May. Vinda was pushing ahead with her court case, but she’d given it a read in return for Gellert’s opinion on her opening statement for the court and both pieces were better for it. Gellert had narrowly avoided his lover discovering the paper on no less that three occasions during the writing process, but he could see that it wouldn’t last much longer. Luckily, Albus had been wrapped up in his Alchemy, having discovered yet another use for dragons blood and trying to see if he could replicate it, so Gellert had been able to distract him with questions about that as well as sex, which sometimes utterly failed to sidetrack his irritatingly obstinate lover. He’d found a wonderful little spell in the library of Alexandria that would translate a text into the language of any country as it crossed the border wards, and with the elder wand it was the work of a moment to apply it to the stacks of copies that were currently sitting in his house in Switzerland, his essay finally ready for distribution. 

He didn’t release them all at once the way he had with his other essays, choosing those in power that he thought would be receptive to it to receive the first few. He knew it would be well received by the Black family, but he sent Cassiopeia one out of courtesy anyway, and did the same for the Addamus Clan. Then it became more tricky. He didn’t want to risk giving it to a truly unbiased reader for fear of being exposed before he was ready, but he knew how all of his trusted allies would respond. Gellert needed to tell his lover before his essay was available to the general public, he knew, but it was so hard to begin the conversation that might bring everything crashing down around them that Gellert kept finding excuses to put it off. He sent a copy to both Professor Mansuro and his Italian cousin, and got surprisingly helpful advice from both. His old teacher suggested emphasising the benefits of widening research to allow such things, while the cousin had offered to represent him in Italian court, should he need it due to the paper. Likewise, the few German academics he’d sent it to had been fascinated, and Ulrich Dirike thought he could probably push through some modifications on the pyromancy laws for research before it became general knowledge if he needed to. Gellert had written back to the man confirming that he’d be grateful for that, and Ulrich asked for a month to get things in order. Sleep was hard to find, the knowledge that Flamel could destroy it all before he had the chance to set the stage creeping into his thoughts whenever he could feel himself falling asleep, but they needed more time. 

June was on the cusp of falling into July when Albus finished his research, and it was brilliant. Gellert had proofread the arithmancy involved of course, laughingly pointing out that it was something of a habit by now, but Albus had been doing far more than just arithmancy. Gellert had all but cried when he finally got to read the finished paper, enraptured by the way his lover’s mind worked and bitterly close to tears at the idea that they had such a short time left. Willing the tears away he embraced his lover, the congratulations on his lips tainted by the secrets that hung in the air between them. Albus shot him a smile that dazzled, and Gellert suddenly found himself slightly more hopeful. Perhaps telling his lover wouldn’t be as bad as he’d thought. Maybe Albus would be more receptive to the idea tonight, the gleam of success that had lit his smile with a joy Gellert hadn’t previously seen serving as a balm to the wounds Gellert’s deception would inevitably cause. Yes, he decided, he would tell Albus tonight. 

Albus had decided to celebrate the paper with a dance, and given the occasion, only the Royal Opera House in London would do. They snuck into the empty depths of the royal opera house on feet charmed silent, Albus not wanting to apperate in and have to obliviate some hapless muggle, but they found no one. Albus’ charm was incredible, Gellert watching in awe as cases flipped open and instruments tuned themselves as they made their way through the air towards the raised dais where the orchestra would usually play. The instruments played for them and them alone in the light of a dozen silver orbs Gellert had flung wide to illuminate the empty rows of plush red seats and ornamental gold carvings surrounding the stalls where they were dancing, and Gellert had never heard anything so wonderful. The musician-less instruments were arranged as they would have been if the muggles that played them had been present, and their hauntingly perfect melody was a piece that could only be described as uniquely Albus. Once more Gellert found himself willing away his tears as they danced, bodies pressed together as the music filled their soul, distracting himself with a kiss that lingered between tender and lustful. Quick and mercurial in places, slowly sensual in others, the music thrummed with an energy he couldn’t quite define that made him want to dance forever, and to his ear it sounded as if his lover had distilled their love into something they could dance to. 

“What’s wrong Gel?” murmured Albus as he slowed their dance to a standstill, the music fading away into a silence that was almost painful. Gellert froze, all of his earlier confidence falling away as his words failed him. “Come on,” coaxed his lover, “You’ve been miserable for weeks now and I want to know why.”  
“I,” began Gellert before stopping short. How could he explain what he was planning to do? “I’ve decided to release a paper defending pyromancy.” Albus didn’t quite step away from him, but based on the tension Gellert could feel in the set of his shoulders it had been a near thing.  
“What are you thinking? Quite apart from the idea that you’re defending dark magic yet again, this could have a huge impact on Soluna’s trial. I’m not sure bout Germany—” Was that a sneer? The expression had come and gone before Gellert could be sure, Albus continuing his tirade. “But her trial is in France, and dark magic happens to be frowned upon there.”  
“I didn’t have a choice.” the words had escaped him before he could stop himself, and Gellert winced at the non-answer he had given. Albus, on the other hand, relaxed a little, meeting Gellert’s eye and running his hand through the long strands of Gellert’s hair as he softened his tense smile into something more natural, though now it was tinged with worry.  
“What do you mean? Gellert you aren’t making any sense.” 

Gellert closed his eyes, took a shuddering breath in and let go of his lies. “I had to because I used it to create Ignem Aeternum, the everlasting flame spell.” Albus did back away this time, Gellert taking a steadying breath and exhaling his fear in a transparent cloud as his lover stumbled away from him. “Flamel knows. He sent a letter threatening to expose me, and now the only way to keep any semblance of public trust is controlling how people find out.”  
“That’s insane.” breathed Albus softly, tears tracking down his face as he said it, and Gellert had taken two steps towards him to brush them away before he forced himself to still at his lover’s flinch.  
“It’s the only sane thing to do Albus. Which would give you a better opinion of me, reading Flamel’s version of events or mine?” He asked, his tone still playful despite the crushing hurt he had felt as Albus moved away from him in fear.  
“Your version of events?” Asked Albus hopefully, and Gellert felt his heart skip a beat, the bond hot in his chest as he let himself feel a faint sliver of hope. 

“I used a little known set of fire spells to help conjure flame without oxygen. It’s hardly even pyromancy—” he began, but Albus cut him off with a question.  
“Is anything you’ve ever told me true? The church fire? And,” Albus retched, unable to meet his eye, “Oh gods, the healing spell. You really did torture some poor muggle didn’t you.” It hadn’t been phrased as a question but Albus must have seen the answer in his expression even so, because Albus was shaking his head in horror before Gellert could even formulate something palatable as an excuse. “You’re twisted. How can you do things like that? You’re not even remorseful.”  
“I love you. That is a truth I have never denied. As for the church fire, that was,” began Gellert, twisting the elder wand in his hands and deciding on a version of the truth Albus would find intriguing, “An unfortunate accident.” His lover was spluttering almost incoherently about how many had died in his little accident, but Gellert spoke over him, finally revealing what he had discovered. “I had no idea how much power I was wielding.”  
“What do you mean?” Asked his lover, curious despite himself as Gellert had known he would be.  
“Look.” he said, holding out the elder wand. “The deathstick. I was just practicing my weather magic, I had no idea it would hit the church.” He continued, the bond tearing at him more with each lie. “I should have told you sooner, you deserved to know.” he finished, keeping his tone carefully free of inflection as he looked up to meet Albus’ eyes. Instead of the awe Gellert had been expecting, he was met with an expression he’d never seen Albus wearing. Jealousy. 

“Deserved to know?” asked Albus, that burning anger of his that Gellert couldn’t help but find wildly attractive roaring to the surface. “Of course I deserved to fucking know. How could you not tell me this?”  
“To be fair, we weren’t exactly on speaking terms when I got it.” Said Gellert cooly, shocked at how well he was hiding his emotions behind this icy facade of calm, and Albus closed his eyes, more silent tears slipping down his cheeks as his burst of anger faded away, leaving behind naked grief.  
“You know that I love you, but this cannot continue.” His lover’s voice was shaking, but Gellert could barely feel anything at all beyond the cold emanating through his blood. “You never tell me anything. This is about the Hallows. The Hallows Gellert, you know how important they are to me. How can I trust you now?” Albus’ voice had risen to a hoarse yell by the end of his rant, and Gellert closed his eyes, the words biting deeply into his soul as the bond twisted fretfully. He had known this was coming, he reminded himself, had known the way that it would all play out as soon as the letter had arrived, and he had been expecting this. Now that it was finally here Albus’ reaction was just another of Gellert’s nightmares come to pass.  
“Al—” he tried, but his lover shot him a dark look, not even allowing him to finish his sentence before he had made his judgment.  
“You threw away everything we ever had, any sense of trust and, and love for power, and you always will.” he said, spitting the words as if they burnt his tongue, “I understand that now.” Gellert felt a tear drip down his face even as the winter within his soul froze the air around him. 

Albus apperated away and without quite meaning to do it Gellert was reaching out, grabbing the last swirl of his lover’s form and following him through to wherever they had gone. Albus shoved him away, his eyes hard through their film of tears. “Albus, please.”  
“If you think that I will forgive you for keeping that from me, you’re wrong.”  
“This is about more than us. This is about the future.” Said Gellert, his voice rising to match Albus’ anger as Albus scoffed at his words. “I’m trying to change the world. Would you do nothing while our world is left to rot in spineless bureaucracy as more and more of the wonders of magic are banned? Would you stand by and watch the oppression of Veela and Werewolves, just because of what has come between us?” Albus flinched back at that, but then he squared his shoulders, eyes narrowing in a glare that Gellert realised he had seen before. The future had once more come to pass.  
“Don’t, Gellert.” said Albus, the harsh tone of his voice splintering at the edges, “Despite your lies we both know how this story ends.” Then he was gone, and still Gellert felt a strange sense of apathy. The ice in his heart cooled the burning ache of the bond’s hateful twisting, and even as the turbulent cocktail of hate and betrayal seeped across the miles now stretching between them, it seemed muted somehow, as if Gellert were merely an observer of the tragedy that was unfolding. 

With leaden limbs, Gellert turned away and let himself fall through nothingness, appearing in his house in Switzerland with ice stilling his blood. Gellert tapped the piles of essays that were stacked by the fireplace, sending each through the green flames to different places. Russian libraries, German press offices and english bookshops were first, followed by a select few that went to his more amiable acquaintances in the international alchemy scene. Hysterical laughter bubbled up in his throat as he signed one, adding a short dedication to the front page in blue-black ink before sending it spinning through the flames to the Flamel Manor. Outside the manor the winds howled, the sky opening up as thunder rolled through the hills bringing snow that hung, lit by a flash of burning lightening for a moment before being swallowed by the dark once more, and Gellert sat down heavily, slumped by a window to watch the storm his grief had created. Hours rushed past, Gellert’s mind replaying that strange look of jealousy Albus had worn, the hate in his eyes, and that final condemning statement. ‘We both know how this story ends.’ Gellert’s eye was itching, a reminder of all the things he had seen of Albus’ future, and though he didn’t know when it had started he found that he was crying again. Albus’ hand in his as they rebuilt a city. Albus glaring at him, pain in his eyes overwhelming the love Gellert was so used to seeing there. Perhaps he had known all along, how it would all end, but as the ice inside him grew through the breaking heart he had tried so hard not to feel, it didn’t make it any easier to accept. When light was creeping over the horizon Gellert hauled himself to his feet and apperated to the kitchen of their rooms in Paris. 

Vinda was still up, books on law scattered over the table and four empty coffee cups were scattered among them. “Long night?” he asked, and Vinda rubbed her eyes, nodding. Gellert sat down next to her with a brittle smile, the coffee pot assembling itself behind him as he did so before she cracked the silence.  
“Um, why are you dressed in yesterday's clothes?”  
“I haven't been back.” replied Gellert confused, a strange sinking feeling accompanying his answer. Something was wrong. Vinda had evidently come to the same conclusion, because she suddenly sat up a little straighter.  
“You and Albus came back at around three. I only saw you for a second, and you were a bit distracted, but you were here. You headed into your room and then the silencing wards went up so I assumed…” Vinda trailed off delicately, and Gellert’s heart broke a little more. Of course, she wouldn’t have known. Then it dawned on him, his room. 

Gellert found his room trashed, loose pages of his spiky writing that had been torn from one of his many notebooks lying scattered across the floor and his books thrown every which way. The wards on the shelves had been shredded, his darker books exposed to anyone who cared to look. His ritual knife was pinning the blood magic text he’d been reading to the bedside table, red ink smashed over the knife, and Gellert almost laughed, a sick glee filling him. There was no going back now. Albus knew about everything. There was no note, but Gellert hadn’t really been expecting one after how Albus had left, and despite everything that had happened he did know his lover well, perhaps the best anyone had ever known Albus, and even now it sent an acidic thrill through him to know that he’d been right yet again. Gellert took it all in, blinking in shock and feeling the ice cooling in his veins and slowing his heartbeat even as Vinda looked on in shock. “As you can see, Albus is not best pleased with me at the moment.” He said grimly. 

“What happened?” asked Vinda, offering an easy embrace that Gellert accepted, his facade of grim acceptance cracking in two as he shook in her arms, weeping like a child.  
“It’s over. I told him about the pyromancy in Ignem Aeternum and he, he guessed about my healing spell. He—” here he broke off, his thoughts splintering into painful shards of hurt as he was overcome with the raw emotions he had thought the ice in his veins would protect him from.  
“It’s ok. Everything will be fine Gellert.” She murmured, and he turned his head to one side, not wanting to be this weak.  
“Only babies cry when they don’t get what they want.” He said, brushing away the tears still dripping down his face and attempting a cool smile that was still far too shaky to trust. “I’ve released my paper on pyromancy, so that will affect the trial I suppose. I’m sorry.”  
“Better this than the alternative. It might not make much difference, because,” here she paused, exhaling a faint green colour that Gellert couldn’t quite identify, “Well, because I’m losing anyway.” The words hung in the air, the cold descending back into Gellert’s soul as he registered the defeat in Vinda’s voice. 

Before the news could sink in the door opened, Hadrian Dirike poking his head around the door and coming in with a smile. “Morning my dear, I thought I’d drop by with breakfast.” he said, cheerfully failing to read the mood. It only took a split second for the two of them to put on their masks, Gellert taking a shuddering breath in and pulling up a glamour to hide his bloodshot eyes and tear tracked cheeks as Vinda snapped back into the lighthearted but capable smile with which Gellert was so familiar.  
“Morning Hadrian.” said Gellert, rubbing his eye as if to remove sleep and looking hopefully at the bag he’d brought containing breakfast, he and Vinda seamlessly falling back into their fondly cutting back and forth over croissants and coffee. 

As Vinda kept the younger Dirike brother occupied Gellert brooded on the things Albus had said, and the things he hadn’t had to. ‘You’re not even remorseful.’ Gellert had heard the unspoken accusation in his tone. Monster. He thought back to his room, the way his notes had been torn up, the almost finished proof on secrecy wards he’d been trying to develop on and off for the previous year burnt, all that remained of it the blue-grey ash smeared across the bed. He loved Albus, he truly did, but that was a step too far. To destroy the one thing he’d thought was sacred to both of them, to destroy knowledge, research? It was wrong, he antithesis of everything Gellert stood for. Albus knew that he held knowledge above all else, and that was precisely why he’d done it. Gellert had seen the bitter jealousy in his lover’s face when he’d revealed that he was the current wielder of the elder wand, and it was an ugly expression. Jealousy didn't suit Albus, and it had no place between the two of them, but if his lover chose to feel that way then Gellert wouldn’t stop him. Gellert was tired of being the forgiving one, so just this once, he was going to try to hurt Albus in return. It was time, he thought to himself with a dark smile as he summoned a sheet of parchment, for a little retribution. He clicked both his wrists, took another look around what was left of his room and began a letter to Nicolas Flamel. 

‘To Flamel,

I trust that by now you’ve read my defence of pyromancy. I’m afraid that you’ll have to try a little harder than an exposé to force your religiously inspired ideals down my throat, though I do thank you for the warning you so kindly sent to my dearest Albus. We were rather preoccupied when it arrived, but when we eventually got up and noticed the letter, it was most useful. You have lived a long life, and perhaps it is the infirmity that is so often brought on by a wizard’s latter years that has left you blind to the changing world around you, but believe me when I say that it is changing. 

I have done the impossible, and it was my indiscriminating study of fire magic in all its forms that allowed me to do so. Regardless of how palatable you find the idea, pyromancy and fire based alchemy are one and the same discipline, and they ought to be treated as such. Like so many of the opinions you disguise as moral facts, this is an entirely subjective issue, and I think that as one alchemist to another we can be frank about that sort of thing. 

Wishing you all that you deserve,  
Gellert Grindelwald. Creator of Eternal Fire, Order of Benevercana First Class, Soul Bonded etc.’ 

He sent it spinning off into the fireplace with a slight smile, not acknowledging the flare of guilt he felt for doing that to Albus as the fire roared. The green hadn’t even faded before there were letters spinning towards him in a stream, and he swore, conjuring a net to fix to his floo box so that they wouldn’t get lost in the debris littering his floor. Ignoring the filling net, he did his best to put the room to rights, putting aside the books that were more extensively damaged to mend later as the pages swirled up towards the notebooks that they’d come from. Turning at last to the letters that were still pouring through his floo box, Gellert cast an interesting charm Adriano had taught him that would reveal the intentions of the letter in a glow of colour and smiled. More than half of them were a summer yellow, meaning good intent, and even of those that were not only seven were actually glowing the indigo that meant that they carried a curse. Gellert very carefully floated them behind him, the net rustling as he made his way back into the living room. 

Coughing loudly to interrupt Hadrian’s latest attempt to subtly pressure Vinda into more than a kiss, Gellert sat down with a huff and waited until Vinda had extracted herself from the embrace to speak. “We’ve got things to do, so as much as I’d love to allow,” here he paused, not sure how to phrase it, “This to continue, I’m afraid I’ll have to drag Vinda away for a bit Hadrian. You don’t mind do you?” he said, and then swept the two of them out of the room before the disgruntled man could reply.  
“You didn’t have to do that.” said Vinda, but there was a relieved light in her eyes that Gellert recognised all too well.  
“Yes I did.” he said with a grin, “Besides, none of it was a lie as such.”  
“I think he’ll propose soon.” said Vinda sadly, and Gellert winced.  
“Surely he won’t rush into anything.” he was clutching at straws now, but it was the only hopeful thing he could think of. Vinda shook her head, the light draining from her eyes as she sighed deeply.  
“I’ll think of something.” 

Imari’s latest letter had arrived with a guest at the end of July, a young woman called Olivia who had just graduated from Salem Witches Institute and was looking to master in Alchemy. She was short, pretty and loud with an eye for sketching and a love of dance, and Vinda would have adored her if they had had more time. Winning the court case was looking more and more like an impossible task, but Vinda point blank refused to back down to what she liked to call ‘those immoral disgraces running the country’, and Gellert was helping out where he could. Between the political speeches, press interviews on pyromancy and the upcoming trial, Gellert found himself so busy that he could hardly think. He fell into bed on the nights that he found the time to sleep, too tired to long for Albus’ touch or think of writing to him, and too numb with exhaustion to feel anything through the bond other that a dull ache. 

Someone who’d apparently been in Kaz’s year at Durmstrang, though Gellert couldn't for the life of him remember the man, had converted a large muggle warehouse into a pyromancy specific laboratory in Berlin when the laws were relaxed just before his paper had gone out. Olivia had seemed fairly interested in the newly legalised fire magic, so Gellert found himself visiting somewhere he’d been meaning to since he heard about it with the charming young witch in tow. When the two of them walked in there was a lively debate going on over the proper wand movement for a Japanese fire curse that he thought he remembered reading about at some point, but as people looked over to the door the conversation ground to a halt. “Grindelwald?” someone asked, and at his nod there were a clamour of questions being fired at him from every side. With a grin, Gellert began to answer, transfiguring a few beams of timber that hadn’t been moved yet into a collection of sofa’s with a flick of his wand and inviting the whole group to sit down. Everyone seemed to have something to say to him, some shyly asking him to sign their copies of his defence of pyromancy while others wanted to know exactly how much pyromancy he knew, when he’d realised that they were one and the same, or who he had bribed at the ministry to get it legalised. Questions whirled past him one after the other, and he barely noticed that Olivia had slipped away from him at some point and disappeared, presumably up to the laboratories above them. 

After that first day Gellert often found himself there in his few free moments. It was brilliant, concentrated explosions rocking the upper floors as Gellert sat in the lounge area he had created on the ground floor, discussing whatever experiments were happening upstairs with one of the many young alchemists that had made this place their own. It was interesting, the mixture of people who arrived, alone or in their twos and threes. There were dark eyed British wizards, embittered by the growing pro-muggle agenda of the government and the bans on ‘dark’ magic, people Gellert vaguely remembered from Durmstrang, the odd young french alchemist who didn’t agree with flamel and countless others besides. There was no rhyme or reason to who appeared, no unifying qualities save intelligence and youth, and the air was thick with translator charms as together they pushed the boundaries of what fire magic could do.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope you enjoyed the chapter, because as sorry as I am to say it this will be the last one for a while. I know, I know, I said that there would be frequent updates during this troubled time, but things have changed. 
> 
> I've been working more and more on my own story, and I don't have space in my brain for this as well.  
> The original story I'm writing means the world to me, and it's my first big attempt at original work, so I've decided to dedicate (almost) my full attention to it. I would dearly love to keep updating this fic as frequently as I have been recently, however I find it really hard to write about two such different worlds while maintaining the high standard of work this fic deserves.  
> Don't get me wrong, this fic means a lot to me. It is DEFINITELY NOT ABANDONED and I'll probably still do the odd update when I need to relax a little, but I feel that right now I can't offer it the attention it deserves. I treasure every comment and care about these characters as if they were my own, but the truth is that I'm the most inspired I've ever been to write my own stuff right now, and I can't do both at once. 
> 
> As ever, please leave a comment, though I might not get back to it as quickly for the reasons I've stated above. I'd love to hear what you thought of this chapter, as it is the end of one of my story arcs, and very much lays the groundwork for the next one. I hope you enjoyed it. 
> 
> Happy reading and best wishes, for the time that I'm away,  
> Your loving author, Frumion.

**Author's Note:**

> Well here it is, hope you liked it. Please comment your opinions. The next chapter will be up soon enough, so don't worry about that. Sorry for the long wait.


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